Heartache

        Sometimes a dangerous slice-of-life
	like stepping off a board-game
	into a frantic lagoon
	 
       drags the truth from the bathroom, where it has been hiding.
	“Do whatever you like to improve the situation,
	and—good luck,” it added, like a barber adding an extra plop of lather
	 
        to a stupefied customer’s face.  “When they let you out
	I’ll be waiting for you.”  It had been that way ever since a girl with braids
	teased him about getting too short.  Yeah, and I’ll bet they have
	 
        places for people like you too.  Trouble is, I don’t know of any.
	The years whirled quickly by, an upward spiral
	toward what ghastly ascendency?  He didn’t know.  He cried.
	 
        One November the police chief came calling.
	He had secretly been collecting all the bright kids
	in the universe, popping them into a big bag
	 
        which he lugged home with him.  No one was too sure what happened
	after that.  The kids were past caring; they had the run
	of the house after all.  Was it so much better outside?
	 
        Snow lashed the windowpanes as though punishing them
	for having the property of being seen through.  The little town
	grew quieter.  No one missed the kids.  They had been too bright
	 
        for that to happen.  Night sprang out of the dense cold
	like an infuriated ocelot with her cub that someone had been trying
	to steal, or so it pretended.  The frightened townspeople sped away.
	 
        There was no longer any room on the sidewalk
	for anything but “v’s” drawn in pink chalk, the way a child
	draws a seagull.  Down at the tavern the neon glowed a comforting
	 
        red.  “All beer on tap,” it said, and
	“Booths for Ladies.”