Every third car in the car lot shines silver-with-roof-rack.
You press your goose caller, but nothing honks back.
It could be broken, or the car could be on 6. Wait here,
you tell him, his tick-thud echoing after
your every wrong turn. You ran two stops
to make his appointment, then you abandoned ship
willy-nilly, the waves licking, the waves
of concrete rising as the elevator misbehaved.
Every pew is filled on 6, all is silence.
No attendant, with godlike countenance,
just a family plodding with such purpose toward you,
asmirk at your obvious idiocy. You
go back for the boy, but it's the wrong bank.
Did he wander out or go game-deaf? Thank
god, on 9 the key fits, 9 is the 6, comics face down
in the back seat. You cruise 3 for him, done
with panic, your head thrust so far out of the car you almost hit
honks, and you graze a post. You sit
in park, you pen the stall number on your palm, you call and call:
Only columns answer. He's at the exit where you look last, al-
most crying, most un-dad-like, slipping, with blinks,
the ticket into the quick mouth for its automatic thanks.
TODAY IN SLATE
I was hit by a teacher in an East Texas public school. It taught me nothing.
Chief Justice John Roberts Says $1,000 Can’t Buy Influence in Congress. Looks Like He’s Wrong.
After This Merger, One Company Could Control One-Third of the Planet's Beer Sales
Hidden Messages in Corporate Logos
If You’re Outraged by the NFL, Follow This Satirical Blowhard on Twitter
Giving Up on Goodell
How the NFL lost the trust of its most loyal reporters.