duck, duck, goose.

some three thousand miles later, sans mustache, and the poplars outside the window move like unsynchronized dancers.
the island here is quiet now.
i hedge the vines. it's the perfect Little Man game. put a two foot blade in my hand, "them grapes stand too tall, take em down to seven foot." and i do, little walkman wrapped into my belt loop, bonnie raitt rappin about men she left, men who left her, what she wants in a man, and the one and only whom she caught just a glimpse of.
and i whack the top off the vines. sharpen the blade between rows. the flick of the wrist, and they fall about my feet. just the big empty field of glistening leaves, ugly matte of dirt and pebbles--and me, a lonely samurai in deck shoes worn through the toes, those black jeans, no shirt and a wide brim straw hat.
when i get too hot i trundle off to the dock at Odlin, park the car, hot-step it over the sand to the lazy fishermen at the dock, who lack even the effort to hop a dingy. if the tide's in, i dive off the top pier, and Lazies grimace as i turn up the peace and tranquil of that murky green bay water. make a big old mess of sound, that pssssssh! of water and the gasp in my lungs.
but they muse at the efficiency of the cold water and the speed with which i hop back up the dock, how my heels hiss on that sand, and my volvo burns out, spits gravel across the beach.
this is where i hide from: the boat accident (one dead, one coma, one arm shot full of screws and bolts, one distraught mother/pilot of two survivors). the bad party (one grudge, two arrests, one forearm bite on Felix the cop, two counts assault, one confused community). the cancer (two months to live, she gets). the acid burns on my brother's hands (they went away).
hide until it all rights itself, until this cough goes away (ragweed, methinks, but fuck it anyhow).
hide, please.