His sense of dislocation was palpable, like a sofa
left out by the side of the road. She was the integration
of all things disparate, weather vanes and vinyl albums,
fire hydrants and stethoscopes. Friends thought he was
an overgrown mosquito. How else to explain his constant
whining. Her acquaintances were gypsies who became
philosophers in their dreams, so she said. At the office
he’d take a cup of water, a crayon, some string, a paper
clip and pretend he was fishing. One morning, dressed
as Plato, she passed his cubicle and inquired about
his intentions. Drowning worms, was all he muttered.
She told him poodles are typical therapists, so focused
on themselves, and that her blues were evergreen. Nodding
yes, then no, he barked, then offered her a pocketful of stream.
–Thom Ward,
Etcetera’s Mistress
Accents Publishing