In the Little Book of Guesses
I’ll make you up from out of the living rooms we face, equal parts singing gate and people we knew once, in biographical order. Equal lengths investiture, and the sun came out and it was bright in my eyes. The room is dark behind the flaring particles. The day is twenty years ago and Tuesday. I did not mean to leave us there with nothing, as I was saying car rides for wonderful. It hardly matters. Unequal parts wanting to mean something and frosted glass. Whose cigarette in the plaid ashtray? Whose clothes on the coffee table as the dog begins to bark? The black dog out in whatever yard, barking off and on the rest of our lives.
From The Little Book of Guesses by John Gallaher. Copyright © 2007 by John Gallaher. Reprinted with permission of Four Way Books.