When I Moved from Nevada
Moses and Fredo stacked boxes of books in the U-haul, cussing at the sage-filled lot
adjacent the building. The cat lurched around the emptying apartment as hiding
places -- i.e. under the bed -- dismantled and walked out the door. I shattered the kitchen
chairs by tossing them from the balcony. Mike, Bob, Chris Bennett -- everyone -- drooped their
asses over barstools. When I said goodbye they turned partway and shrugged. I could have
wept like a wife in this divorce. Sunset pinked its way over Crystal Peak and Peavine. Pulling the Jeep the U-haul dragged like a poem: this way and that up the Sierra. Donner Lake and Pass were snowless and tame. From the back seat the cat wailed.
Once, down above the junk, this feeling like I was part of something. Bob had wrapped his
T-shirt round his head in a turban and twirled to the punk rock, the bulges of his stomach and droplets of sweat spinning off. My cigarette mingled with a million others. It was a
protest for cigarettes: here we are, now deal with us. Sharon's anger: eyes like a cat's. This million people danced with their cigarettes without angry girlfriends. Everyone got out of Bob's way, so he could spin uninhibited. Another time I felt almost the same way. That bar -- the Summit Saloon, way out in the dark on Fourth Street -- closed. Afterwards they put up condos.