Insignificant and Small

insignificant and small. stuffed in an old coffee can that rusted just right.

i found it in the midst of one of my moves. its home was between an ‘i like ike’ pin and a small letter folded tiny and tight; letters written, never meaning to send. i systematically throw out the old nostalgic garbage i acquire, only to replace it with new nostalgic garbage. the theory is that this garbage is the best possible garbage to represent the sequential failures i refer to as my life.

it was one of those days when the momentum of a hectic life stops and you’re left reeling. emptied of everything, i sit down and look at my shoes. i debate if i really needed to put them on. or if what i really needed was to lie down for a bit. i stare at them and lose time. i snap back when a sliver of drool falls on my shoes. at least i’ll make a great flycatcher with my mouth slack and not a thought in my head.

i look back through the old coffee can and pull out the book of matches a customer of mine gave to me some years back. how did this make the cut? how did i not toss this out so i could acquire more garbage?

kosciuszko hall: “where the party begins and ends”

big bad wolf

a phone number

i dialed the phone number, compelled to speak with a long dead polish bar owner from 50 years previous