A matter of degrees

Jacks from a German deck of cards engraved in 1545 (Wiki commons)

Jacks from a German deck of cards engraved in 1545 (Wiki commons)

Lily’s crying upstairs now but it’s not the cries of a child, it’s the depths of horror, of hormones. She doesn’t seem interested (in an emotional way) in the bedtime ritual, it’s more transactional now—like anything, it doesn’t happen overnight, it’s painstakingly, deceptively gradual:

it’s like an animated short film, your life, a deck of playing cards with the same image but at slightly different angles to give you the impression it’s moving day after day,

but it’s why each day really is important, they all add up to make a picture—

and instead of going up to kiss them goodnight I let Dawn have her turn (she’s better at it, more in demand) and I go back down to the den, to the sofa, that’s slanted like a billiard table, where all the balls collect in the corner—and all I have to redeem myself is the idea of some art that really, at its core

is transactional.

Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , , , ,

7 replies

  1. it is an ongoing and ever-changing transaction. usually no rhyme or reason involved.


    • yeah, that’s right: I was thinking about art and science last night, how they’re kind of separate by definition (or are they?). No rhyme or reason, the same.


  2. I thought those were Tarot cards up there at first. Shows what I know. I.e, not much.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Girls are tough, and I mean to raise but also how they bounce back. You know this already.

    Liked by 1 person

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