While Waiting I
Bend Down to Tie My Shoe
by Anthony DeGregorio
And a thought suddenly
occurs to me, so I consider
its heady premise, i.e., that I may be dead.
Or is it merely the
others also waiting in this motel-like
decorated room
Who are no longer
numbered amongst the living
And no longer tarry
in their ranks?
Everything in the
room is nondescript: uncomfortable
doctor’s office chairs; particle board
Desks set perpendicular
to double-length extra light
folding aluminum tables; a benign painting
Portraying mid-afternoon:
the sun an overripe crayon-citrus
color, its shapeless reflection upon a Stagnant pond; surface scum, blemishes
on the water’s placid face, afloat like vegetative islands Of desired vacation
destinations; exactly three (3) radioactively-pleasant-orange goldfish, like
Those rescued and relocated into airless plastic bags from the local F.W.
WOOLWORTH CO., Or W.T. GRANT CO., or
H.L. GREEN CO. 5 & 10 cent-type store and then kept at home for
Maybe a week or two, their own deaths held in abeyance as they swam,
crazed at first, then Floated Zombie-like, lackluster eyes, and severely
depressed, in the small clear glass bowls of Their watery voyeuristic
worlds—also purchased at one of the classic stores,
perhaps following
a Delicious & Nutritious! Hot Turkey Sandwich for
65¢ at the friendly endless counter, where red Backless seats twirled for the
asking until your mother grabbed you and whispered loudly, “Stop it now, young
man, or we’re leaving, and there will be no fish for you!”—until these poor
pets, Destined for slow torture ending with a free flush to Goldfish Heaven vs.
a quick consumption, Netted by employees in the bland smocks and aprons of
memory’s black-and-white Google Search-influenced recall, were inevitably
overfed or succumb to the murky toxicity of tap water-Filled homes, their own
feces trailing, floating in designs sure to shame Mr. Hermann Rorschach.
The grass in these
ne’er appreciated masterpieces sways, a
cordial wave to all directions, the Foliage smiles in a floral rainbow of
unnatural unison. The sky’s impossible blue blotted with Clouds puffy as cotton
candy sold at local carnivals held in volunteer fire department parking Lots
where the engine company’s one hook and ladder truck, whose secret stories of
heroism and Sadness and duty were quietly acknowledged in the silver Mona Lisa
smile spread across its Chrome grille, idled as a photo backdrop proudly
displaying the town’s name and engine Number, and held parentally posed
boys and girls, sticky faces smeared with the disappearing Magic stuff of the
candy, while daydreaming adults, many still in creased work attire clinging to
Them, or dirt- and
oil-stained denim bib overalls drooping,
looked on. Pensive, tired. Hungry.
There is a sense
of palpable absence in this waiting room.
A lack of tangible
substance, of smell, of even residual
warmth
Left upon a seat
seconds after a stranger rises and another
replaces him.
When I barely brush
against someone,
Our wrinkled rolled-up
sleeves pressing upon us like
another skin
Whose cloth covers
half our respective arms
With the fashionable
shame of modesty,
It feels as if an
internal breeze
Blows across the
room
Exhaling time’s
rattling breath,
Rather than the feeling
of touch
From another person’s
forearm epidermis
Whispering to my
own quivering essence,
As I remain in wait,
On alert for a lurking
nefarious presence
That so far only
I seem to have detected.
Anthony DeGregorio’s writing
has appeared or is scheduled to appear in various publications, including Libre,
Abandoned Mine, Italian America Magazine, Aromatica Poetica,
Bloom, Nowhere, Wales Haiku Journal, Polu Texni,
and So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library.
He taught writing at
Manhattanville College for twenty years, and in another life or two or three he
worked in various capacities for the Department of Social Services, much of
that time while teaching at night. Prior to that is anyone’s guess, but don’t
let that stop you.
