Rebecca Hoogs

made it to Florida and then I went for a walk. The frog pond is half-iced over. I chucked a stick at it— still thin. On the white side, the wind twirled a leaf around like a prepubescent figure skater who’s given up her childhood to get here. Of course, the leaf was wearing its practice costume of browns, the whole world offed of spangles as I am offed of you. Why mail snow? Just to show I could keep it cold in so much heat.

My dear, you are the high-speed car chase, and I, I am the sheet of glass being carefully carried across the street by two employees of Acme Moving who have not parked on the right side because the plot demands that they make the perilous journey across traffic, and so they are cursing as rehearsed as they angle me into the street, acting as if they intend to get me to the department store, as if I will ever take my place as the display window, ever clear the way for a special exhibit at Christmas, or be Windexed once a day, or even late at night, be pressed against by a couple who can’t make it back to his place, and so they angle me into the street, a bright lure, a provocative claim, their teaser, and indeed you can’t resist my arguments, fatally flawed though they are, so you come careening to but and butt and rebut, you come careening, you being both cars, both chaser and chased, both good and bad, both done up with bullets that haven’t yet done you in. I know I’m done for: there’s only one street on this set and you’ve got a stubborn streak a mile long. I can smell the smoke already. No matter, I’d rather shatter than be looked through all day. So come careening; I know you’ve other clichés to hammer home: women with groceries to send spilling, canals to leap as the bridge is rising. And me? I’m so through. I’ve got a thousand places to be.