The Tree Goes Up Today

Small town, home town sleep in when its cold and the sun is up and out cant quite cut the winter but your quilts protect you with the smell of the closet and detergent - the kind your mother still buys. You look to your left, towards the window at the sun and you see your half-glass of water with a top shell of ice. you look towards the right and see the back of your eyelids as you pull the quilts up, tucking them under your shoulder and stretching out your legs to feel the wood of the foot board as you smell the hair strewn across the pillow next to you. You slide back into sleep thinking about yesterday's rain while you cleared the garage - up in the rafters, pulling down boxes of Christmas ornaments and busted up chairs - so close you can hear it pounding through the shingles inches from your ear. Animals stir and bells ring out lightly enough to guide your dreams. The smell of bacon and eggs makes you taste orange pulp on your lips. The sky is clear. The tree goes up today.

Three Dead Boys

Three boys lay dead in the grass while the rocks block the drive and the cars park along the road. Their sprawling bodies reveal their sock stripes, neglected by limp fingers, waiting to be pulled up around their tightened calves. We look around them for anything of value, anything that that won't look like tampering with the scene. The old man appears from no where an stares. "It's too beautiful a day for crime. The sun is out, trees green, and the breeze pours thru there with ease and delight. Today is no rush." I look to you but you are looking up at him. Grey suit, short white whiskers hanging off his long chin. He peaks down at us without moving his head. "Of course, the night was long. Tricky as they may be." We turn back to the bodies. I've got my kite wrapped around my wrist, you sit on the back of you feet, grassing up your knees. I look back to the old man for answers. He is gone. "Maybe we can get their bill folds," I circle around them trying not to get too close, "and check that pocket for gum."

My hand turns red from waiting. Head rounds my shoulder each car that passes, back straight, hands down to the side. You re still sitting. Hands on knees, breathing like you are smelling - trying to catch the sent of the crime. I beg you to say something. "Coulda been wolves." Only your eyes turn. I look to the grass and circle around them, tough. "Ain't no wolves in this part of the neighborhood. Plus, no tracks on the lawn." I check the lawn silently, and the bushes nearby(only a pile of o bottles), then for marks along their necks. "No marks on them either. Nope not wolves. My best guess is they froze." You get to your knees, tears in your eyes. "Froze?" as you march up to me, "But it's not cold yet." I turn my back and poke the kite into the earth. "You heard the grandpa. 'Night gets long.'" But I'm still not sure.

We creep in close to the bodies and kneel beside them. I watch your open mouth as you lower your ear. Whispering, "This ones breathing." Now I can hear the rattle of breath, cold creeping out of the lungs. "No, no no, no no. The dead can't breathe, plus we called their names." Your sister said the blond one is Jamie and I know the fat one's called "Tuff". You lean over the bodies, "Yeah but we don't know the last ones name." The last one has mouth open, teeth we from dew, reflection from the sun. His cream color pants and crimson sweater look the most worn, torn in the elbow, white shirt with thin red stripes stick through. His eyebrow twitches in the wind. I stand and kick his boot, checking for ice. None fall off, I crane my neck to be sure. "What'd you do that for?" as you're standing. "It's is definitely wet down there, not sure about the ice though. I call this one 'Boots.'"

"Boots! Boots!"
"Hey Boots! ...Hey! ...Are you all dead?"
I told you that I knew they wouldn't answer and circle 'round to my kite, still stuck down in the yawn. My backside hits the ground beside it. I start to untangle my string. You rustle, or the wind rustle behind me. "Shut up with all that racket!" You get quiet, walk towards the gutter. I call after. "Wait, where you going?" Grass in your hand, you turn your head, standing in your boots. "Looking for tadpoles," and turning, start walking. "But, wait. I -- don't you want to wait for them to -- see if they are dead or not." Still walking, shrugging your shoulders. "Wait. What are you going to put them in?" You turn around and run back to me.

"I got just the thing." I get up off the ground and run out to the bushes, you follow. Back down to my knees, sticking my head in, handing out bottles.
"What are you doing there!" I throw out the last bottle and you drop it, turn to the fat policeman. "Where did you get those?" I look at your tears. All but one bottle has slipped to the grass - the last one folded up in your arms. You breathe mostly in. "We are using them to get tadpoles. There's nothing against it." Then you catch your breath to speak, "We didn't kill them. The wolves did. One of them still breathing." The cop slides the bottle out from your arms and guides over to the three bodies.

"What are their names?" His hand on your shoulder. I pointed. "The blond one is Jamie, and he's Tuff and that one's Boots." We watch the hem in his slacks stretch as he kneels beside them."Boy's! Wake up!" They jump, tripping on shoes, choking on breath, and ran as he shook the bottle behind them."You boys sure you don't remember their names?"I try to repeat myself, your stare shining up at me, a tear still in your eye."I'll have to take this with me. You'll have to find something else to catch your tadpoles in."

Those Aren't Silhouettes, They Are Shadows

If I had the whiskey, I wouldn't need the tea. Isn't that what duty-free was created for? I am falling for rug shops in basements and getting robbed around every corner. My best move is to be to push the latch in on this Moroccan door and listen for the calls to prayer, wait for the sun to come up in the morning. The bread is hard and the soup cold. The only thing eatable is this roasted chicken and i'll the coke bottles found in the pharmacy. The medicine man tried to make me buy oil by rubbing it on my temples but I just pointed to the bucket of melted ice and held up two fingers. I'm sure I payed for the oil too. I cut my hand on the cap of the first one. No opener, just the edge of a windowsill and a hard palm. Any other hotel in the world would have kicked me out for the chip I left, but this one adds to the place. Mis-matched sheets and furniture. One light bulb over a stained sink. I wouldn't even call it a hotel if I had the choice. I cant remember any ones name. It doesn't matter. All they bang on about is my money. My best move is to sit here in the dark and wait for the sun to come up over the morning. I'd pack my things but the pen and paper is all I pulled out of my sack all day. My lonely light bulb is making me see silhouettes and the the lock rattles with every breath I take. The key is to keep my hood up and stay under these covers. My wallet stays in my jeans and my jeans stay on my body. They both dig into my hip. I'll loosen my belt and top button but I'll stay zipped up. My jeans get a fresh coat of blood on them each time I remember to wipe off my palm. The pillow gets its fair share too. I'll buy bandages in Spain tomorrow. Ah, Spain tomorrow. For now, I'll lay here, nursing my leaking hand, waiting for sun to come up in the morning.

I pray along with each call even though they make me jump. The sound is shouted out sinister. I turn my head. Mecca is bound to be just out my window. I don't ever get much past, "Dear, oh dear God -" before I dose back off. I guess it is hard for him to give an answer. I wonder if I should have been in church. Any church, old ladies and gospel hymns, death and redemption, a pass of the plate, even if I don't believe it. Maybe then I wouldn't be where I am now. Maybe I'd be home or in southern baptist schools like my brothers. Following father after grandfather. But tradition's not in my blood. Maybe I'd be with someone. Probably the green eyes with the curls. But I have always been better alone. What is it the old men always tell you in donut shops Easter morning? "Women are fine but what you need is adventure." I choke down warm coke and feel my mouth rot. Not only from sugar but from smoke. I miss the water that strengthens teeth. Cupping from my dripping sink only taunts my raw mouth and chapped lips. Still somehow digging out my toothbrush seems like far too much work. It's only six hours til sunrise as is and I've already spent eight here. No time for anything. The call to prayer will be shouted again violently any second now, as soon as I forget to brace myself for it. I'd time it but the light on my watch won't stay on long enough, and moving an inch under these sheets just embraces the cold. They threaten to freeze me to bleeding death. My only chance is to curl up here, try not to make a sound, and wait for the sun coming up in the morning.

I ask my self what Tangier was built on. European traders and horse riding bandits are all that come to mind. They now come to stand, blacking out the light from my persevering bulb, daring me to make my move. I weakly shout out, "Where are all your horses?" My breath only comes in half way and I hold onto it as long as I can before letting it out. The bandits want it but I have to give them as little as I can. I am running out of cash. I don't live in Africa and two weeks is long enough to be homeless. Why did I stretch it to four? I will bolt on the fastest ferry out as soon as the sun comes. If the door is locked I'll scream til it's broke open. If the guides are outside waiting with stories of their children and their promises of trips up the mountain I will jog down the the steep hill to the dirty pier. If they follow I will throw money at them as I have done at everything here. Swindlers in their cafe, the poisoners in the basement rug shops, the crooked guides with their walking sticks and questions; when I leave they will all get a piece of me. They can take it. They're already bleeding me dry. And all I want is off of this continent. But I know I have to fight that alone. Their silhouettes stand in front of the light, waiting for me to come, but the only fair way out is to sit here and watch the sun come up into this morning.