Bob Lucky
The Diamond Smuggler Who Lived with His Mother
He bought his mother a broom custom-designed for her limp, vibrant displays of plastic flowers for her birthdays (which he might one day recycle on her grave), and tea towels that wouldn’t wick water if buried at sea. On Sundays, he would drive her to mass and insist that she walk home because the exercise was good for her. What a son! She told her friends. What a son! They agreed.
A Note on the Past
I’ve dug deep to find what makes it tick. It’s no clock. I’ve peeled layer after layer and cried. It’s no onion. I’ve tweezered shards and bone splinters. It’s no midden. I’ve brushed the dust from empty eye sockets. There’s no vision. I’ve deciphered indecipherable scripts. There’s no secret message. I’ve fossicked for star dust in the dirt. It’s just dirt. This tells me everything; but what it means is still a mystery.
The Present
One day about two-hundred years ago something happened. It came to me as I was drinking coffee in a temporarily sunlit café. It was an eclipse. Some people sacrificed the nearest chicken they could grab. I ordered another coffee and turned my gaze to the future. I recognized an ashtray I’d made for my mother when I was in the 4th grade. Even in the future, it’s ugly, but my mother loves it even though she’s dead.
Bob Lucky is the author of Ethiopian Time (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Conversation Starters in a Language No One Speaks (SurVision Books, 2018), My Thology: Not Always True But Always Truth (Cyberwit, 2019). His work has appeared in Rattle, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Otoliths, and other journals. He lives in Portugal.
The Diamond Smuggler Who Lived with His Mother
He bought his mother a broom custom-designed for her limp, vibrant displays of plastic flowers for her birthdays (which he might one day recycle on her grave), and tea towels that wouldn’t wick water if buried at sea. On Sundays, he would drive her to mass and insist that she walk home because the exercise was good for her. What a son! She told her friends. What a son! They agreed.
A Note on the Past
I’ve dug deep to find what makes it tick. It’s no clock. I’ve peeled layer after layer and cried. It’s no onion. I’ve tweezered shards and bone splinters. It’s no midden. I’ve brushed the dust from empty eye sockets. There’s no vision. I’ve deciphered indecipherable scripts. There’s no secret message. I’ve fossicked for star dust in the dirt. It’s just dirt. This tells me everything; but what it means is still a mystery.
The Present
One day about two-hundred years ago something happened. It came to me as I was drinking coffee in a temporarily sunlit café. It was an eclipse. Some people sacrificed the nearest chicken they could grab. I ordered another coffee and turned my gaze to the future. I recognized an ashtray I’d made for my mother when I was in the 4th grade. Even in the future, it’s ugly, but my mother loves it even though she’s dead.
Bob Lucky is the author of Ethiopian Time (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Conversation Starters in a Language No One Speaks (SurVision Books, 2018), My Thology: Not Always True But Always Truth (Cyberwit, 2019). His work has appeared in Rattle, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Otoliths, and other journals. He lives in Portugal.
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