by Stephen Wegmann
A long row of homes leads down the shore, towards sunrise, towards weeds at shore. At the house there is a static silence, a silence you bottle and pack as I stand in the empty living room listening to Jack ambling around, his claws tacking against the hardwood. I have a feeling, a feeling I know the light shifting slowly through the blinds can immediately sense as it falls across my face. Maybe I should be here instead; here, as opposed to in my head, guessing what we’re going to do next. Maybe I should just be my own feet in my own sand on my own beach in my own living room. I turn to you in what must have been a purposeful manner, because you immediately look up from the box marked EVEN MORE STUFF and kind of cringe the wine glass that’s wrapped in paper that’s in your hand because you know -- I have a plan.
Stephen Wegmann makes coffee for a meager living while he dreams up really subtle yet wholly tender moments. He also needs to get a life.