poof

he never makes the route 31 light after thursday night acupuncture. but after it changes and one hundred yards out the ka band of his radar detector zaps red because up the next hill is the cop sedan waiting to snag another drunk princeton couple returning from that church, now restaurant. the one with a high school football player waiting to take keys and shake hands, like some sinning pastor in training for a revised century. meanwhile, orange and blue reflectors keep arriving in headlights like robots sneaking out to meet.

and there’s the sign for stacked firewood at twenty bucks. the sign for duck eggs. the plowing driveways sign. and a neon cone planted in a pothole two feet out from the edge of 518. and then he passes the fallingdown house where the squatter lives. lightless now. woodsmoke wafting towards orion. if he pulled over and dropped the window he could hear the creek polishing rocks.

but the county bulldozed the house two years ago. and maybe he’s staggering behind a wonky cart in tampa trying to find that shelter with cots. and the cop has called his wife to say he loves her for the night. and this is when he remembers what he almost forgot: the story isn’t always about him.