It’s Only A Paper Moon
It was a few pieces of board. Strung lengthwise. Two-by-somethings at top and bottom. A slanting shard of wood between the two. Carried by two lads of indeterminate age.
I passed them in an intersection, on the way to an appointment. I was late. Running. Almost. I couldn’t stop to ask them why they carried that particular configuration of wood through a busy intersection. Borne between them. Leather and asphalt. Oxygen and wool.
Even though I didn’t have time, I stopped on the sidewalk. Looked back. Watched them disappear around a corner. Yellow cabs. Gasoline. Walk. Don’t Walk.
Where were they going with that Whatever-It-Was?
Perhaps it was a top for a table. Or a stage. For their apartment. That’s it. They shared an apartment, and they cooked elaborate dinners. Eaten at the bar in the kitchen.
They spun. And they whirled. On their two-by-somethings, strung between supports. Hidden from the city. From their neighbors. From nosy tourists. They howled at the paper moon. A half-shard of a thing, suspended in the light-polluted sky.
Maybe they left the wood suspended there. Before they collapsed. Slept. They dreamed of moonlight and the pounding of sound upon wood. Until the next time.
The beginning of a fiction series. Long overdue. Because, you must be well-and-truly-sick of reading about my life by now. So, what happened to that door? A series of possibilities. I’ll explore one or several. If it was even a door I passed at an intersection on the way to an appointment.