I’m driving through your neighborhood. It’s quiet and lonely, like a summer lake without a boat. In the air, white silk light, slow as milk. I can see through the houses. They’re more than themselves, like a minuend before the subtraction of the subtrahend. My thought music points me north. I’ve forgotten one of my shoes, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect my driving.
Ever since my release, I have symmetrical taste. I don’t give feedback. I’m always on time. Yes, of course, I care about the animals I eat.
I recall your face, a soft petal above the thorn of your heart. Trust is what you do when you’re too relaxed.
As I pull my rental car into your driveway, your house is three shades of polite beige, calm as a desert stone. The kids must be at school. I’m in my own body, now.
At your door, I don’t knock. I wouldn’t want to disturb you. I am the only thing I’m afraid of. My hands are steady.
I let myself in.
– Brad Rose, “Where The Heart Is”
Lunch Ticket, Summer/Fall 2016