Laughing at buses
11:19 a.m. || Friday, Feb. 07, 2003
we often walk to the mailbox and back
because we need to spend time doing something.
he doesn't talk,
he rubs his face against the bushes,
when I'm not looking,
and
balances on a brick wall.
i hold his hands
so he won't fall
the way he did last time.
His face is slack in some places,
mostly around the mouth,
because of disuse.
sometimes his pants are on crooked,
and the top of his shirt is always wet.
He holds my pointer finger
like it's a bicycle handle
because his hand is too small to grasp
all of mine.
There are huge ravens hopping
one two, one two
and then both feet together,
right in the middle of the road.
I point them out,
and then watch his feet.
One two, one two, one two.
He mimics their movements
casually, not noticing that he's doing it.
as we walk together
i wonder if one of us is a figment of the imagination
and if i looked to the concrete,
would i see one shadow, or two?