Goldy

Just now I discover that my salt shaker has gold dust in it, not salt.


All summer, I’ve felt important, but sluggish—weighed down like a motherfucker.




On the last day possible, I go to the doctor.

He’s studied the X-rays.

Consulted the blood work.

Even looked down my throat with a very high powered flashlight.

“What happens when you try to swim in a pool?”

“I sink right to the bottom.”

“Oh.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep eating, you’ll be rich soon.”





Sometimes when I came home things in my house were different.

A TV remote on the couch where I don’t sit.

Toilet lid left down.

Jar of mayonnaise sideways in the fridge.

I’d had a problem once with squirrels in the attic. This time, when I pulled the string and took the stairs up, I found a girl sleeping in C in a nest of pink insulation.

She lifted her head, “I’ve been paying rent.”

I said, “Listen, you should come down here and talk out your mysteries.”