My buddy misheard me.
“How does it feel to be really small?”
It wasn’t my question—I hadn’t said a word in over 100 miles—I was busy getting my hat over my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my chin, my neck, my chest…
Someone else must have asked, “How does it feel to be really small?”
In the road movie of life, the comedy of the weary—a lifetime of trailing off, people smaller than us—marimbaphones, bonangs, carbon steel, not much else—hanging out in the floor mat fur. Foot setting a/c could blow them all away. I asked for it in my head, a tired request, too tired to call a prayer. He repeats the question.
My disappearing face, then disappearing hat, like some Basil Wolverton opera in three shards of Alice’s looking glass. Patterns riding dicamba drift like a dragon.
My buddy and I are tired, gone a little weird under the hat
More about: Josiah Steinbrick
