The house smells a little funny. Like new
but also like something else. I try to keep
things clean. Though there is always dust
somewhere. A few dirty dishes sitting on
the counter. I feel like you might have
stolen my obsessions. I feel like
a dirigible. I don’t know what that means. I feel like I am
no longer constituted of atoms. Because
that would make me something else. Electrons.
Neutrinos. I would look at you and say, “Hello, you are
floating,” and this would make you feel wonderful.
Then I would be Eritrea. A spider monkey.
A Palo Verde tree. Sandstone. And not me. Or you.
Or she. Or he. Meanwhile, they made
rice for dinner. There was little conversation. And
little attention paid to ecology. She kissed him on
the forehead. Such little places. Change me
each time.
Paul Sacksteder is a stay-at-home dad and teacher based in Las Vegas. His work has appeared in a variety of places including the Hawaii Review , Barnstorm , and Sun's Skeleton .
