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I, you on porch

Prose by Ben Boatwright

Originally taken aback, in the meadow, under hot circumstances. A goal in mind: to reach for the same meaning. Of trying to patch up a sincerity that never existed in the first place. It is non-existent.

What does that mean to you? And, if it means anything, give a detailed explanation why. When do you reach across to touch someone? When you feel they want it, or when you feel like itís ďrightĒ? Iím certain there are memories that require you to turn a little while sitting. Or that require you to sit.

Iím afraid there is nothing we can do for your exposure. Itís a missed call. There, you can see it on your telephone. Iím way too late. Is there anything I can get for you while Iím out still? Could you remind me of what I was supposed to get in the first place? An array of things, no doubt, to clean your house with. A mixture of effervescence and beeswax. So light-hearted are your ways of cleaning.

They are there, dead, on the porch. All the materials you asked for. And your meaning is manifesting itself as we speak. I can tell by the way you are walking. One foot tilted, a bit of a limp, Iíd go so far as to say. Your walk is an explanation. Iím forgetting it already. Because you are standing here, on the telephone, talking to me. Iím right here, in front of you. Is there anything you wanted to say, to remind me of? Because I must go, Iím terribly on time, if that makes any sense. Iíve dropped these things off for you.

Itís clear that you have to clean up now and I must go. Iím far too weary. Too fatigued.

Even sickened at the response I get from you, even still. Coming home is a nightmare.

Iíve turned to you before, itís a weak spotóitís damaged there. Unclean, but not dirty. Soulfully yours, belonging to you and you alone. Dying there, on the porch, with your cleaning materials. Mouth wide open from too much support. Iíve been here before, havenít I? Is there a way out?

I know the cat wasnít fed, I can tell by the memories Iím having. Looking at you. And the way the swing is swinging. Too much talk on a hot summer day. An afternoon, built around responses, little responses and quiet melodrama.

A surplus of gills on a fish. Sheís crying out to you now. The strange thing is, that you never hear her. She only gets a puzzled look from you. But you are the one who is puzzling; after all youíre the one with the shirt on backwards.

Telling lies to all your friends, and the truth to your enemies. A witness.

Iím bearing it all on my chest, you can tell by the rise and the fall. Coming up out of the closet I have seen you, wandering around aimlesslyÖ.

Not a rock in sight. Loving this, I smiled. Hating it, I left.

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