By Brad Rose
Out here, you get more stucco for your money. I’m on autopilot, the steering wheel barely necessary. You don’t need a telescope to discover the bad planets, although a thing must be lost before it’s found.
Somewhere in my head, I’m swimming away from a blue boat, a warm, salt wind blowing toward a distant coast. And overhead, invisible in the dreamy daylight, stars so old they’re dead.
Like an insomniac’s sleep, I’m gone.
The radio’s music becomes a single note, the lawns acquiesce, the children belong to no one.
As I pull into the driveway, a body washes ashore.