One day three fellows they all clubbed together. Midway through what they had agreed was the last song of the night one proposed a heist. He had a brute poetry to his description: cuff a watchman, cut a hole in a door no one even knew about, take, take, kill if had to. The others, shorter of stature and more intelligent, would not hear of it. “Head in the clouds,” they said, closing their eyes sadly in alternation, like the time before and the time before that. The tall one turned up his nose and plunged into the crowd for one more dance. The music sped up, and the extrapolated evening was salvaged.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
No comments:
Post a Comment