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my eyes, blue and
blurred by bloodshot
whites
blurred by
wrinkles and sand
and there is no
stillness there
but maybe some
sort of vague
restlessness, the
restlessness that
comes when nothing
is quite good enough
the restlessness
that comes when
you haven't done
enough and your life
technically
is halfway done.
my youngest son,
six, eyes brown
and bright like
falling autumn leaves
backlit by rays of
an unbroken sun,
eyes bright and
satisfied with a life
of friends and soccer balls
there is no turbulence
there.
my oldest son
is seven, and
already
he is tiring
of the grind
of school and
soccer and violin
and later there will
be baseball and
he dreads Monday
and loves Friday
and I tell him
that this is
how life goes,
even when you're grown up,
I tell him
how you have to
go to work each
day, even in the
summer and
learning is much
better than working
and it's true
I've forgotten how to learn
and I've learned how to drink
and mix joy and regret
but I don't say that to my son
nor do I tell him
how each working day
is like a piece
of recycled paper
and the routine
is carbon and
my motions —
the commute
the job itself
are traced
day in and
day out,
the carbon fading
just a little bit more
with each passing day.
trapped in a
fading subdivision
by age and
solitude he
told me that
he watches
the news
night and day
not for information
but for the
pretty girls.
you have to admit
he said as he
flipped from
one all news
network to
the next,
there are no
dogs reading
the news
and a man
like me
has to have
a reason to
get up in the
morning and
pretty girls
are always
a good reason
for getting up
in the morning
and my wife,
she knew I
liked to look
at the ladies
and it's not
like I ever
touched them
or anything
even though there
is nothing to stop
me from touching them
now but a man like me,
he said,
where is he supposed
to go to find
pretty girls?
It's not like I can
find them walking the
sidewalks around
here because the
sidewalks around
here are always
empty and it's
not like I can
go to the grocery
store and fondle
melons all day long
just in case a pretty
girl walks by.
no.
it has to be the TV,
he said,
it has to be the news
and I left him,
left him in that
dusty house in that
fading subdivision
and drove to my
house new and
shiny vibrant
with children
and life and
I sat in my
favorite chair.
I grabbed
that remote
control and
held it
tight.
David LaBounty lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with his wife and two young sons. He served in the Navy for four years and worked at a gold mine in the Nevada desert. He's had jobs as a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. His novel, The Trinity, has just been released by Silverthought Press.