Not Working
“Gotta make hay,” we’ll say to each other as we stumble out of bed at six a.m. to milk cows.
“Gotta make hay,” we’ll say to each other as we stumble out of bed at six a.m. to milk cows.
Rusty antennae form a kind of industrial crown of thorns, and the typeface doesn’t say “beach day” as much as “we interrupt this program to bring you a SEVERE WEATHER ALERT.”
Convulsions—shocking, kill-stand-rattling convulsions—are normal.
You could smell the hesitant air looking for its next class in all the wrong buildings.
But grown women usually don’t wail on an eight-hour flight over the Atlantic.
Despite our best efforts, however, okra gets overly large and woody, tomatoes drop to the ground and burst, lettuce bolts, and basil goes to seed.
Maybe I’m just too easy to please.
Albert Einstein strolls through campus regularly, I imagine, on his way back home from running whatever errands ghosts run downtown.
Like everything magical, though, the airship project was riddled with realities.
The grate creeks and I move to step off, but it snaps under my weight. I’m falling. I thought I could grab the side of the sidewalk, but I can’t.