Wreck

A carnival prize torn open in a field, little fuzzes everywhere. A concrete mixer on the back of a truck whirring lazily. A suboptimal play in a board game. A frenzied ghoul flitting through a suburban lot with a half-finished home. A single braid pointing down someone’s back. A volleyball net tethered to a tree and a pole. A shotgun casing nestled in the grass. A forever long soliloquy on stage. A calculated risk. A tiny sample of frozen food at a wholesale store. A trash can full to the brim with paper plates slathered in barbecue and baked beans. A pair of jeans damp with saltwater lying on the tile. A hunk of meat hanging from a wolf’s maw, carrion and slaver mixing as pink strings fall to the earth. A virulent strain. A frog song cutting through the cattails and slicing open whatever memory you have left of your father. A wreck of twisted and burnt metal smoking on the side of the highway. A lit cigarette on the way to your lips. A cloth bag of small, thin bones clanking with every step toward the creek. A slight brush of tongues and a stirring. A bubble wand waving through the air. A frenetic pace. A benevolent dictator. A singular dimension in which all you do is development and progress toward some unstated goal. A pounding out of words. A goldendoodle stretched out at the bottom of your bed stupidly panting. A fundamental datum being challenged by your desire. A set of stunning heels hidden in your closet. A denial. A winding path leading to the back door of your childhood home that you don’t remember. A head of tousled hair leaning crazily on the breeze. A snowstorm on the way. A soft spot in the armor. A way out of all this by simply saying yes to whatever they ask of you and tell you to take.