Wherein the Heart Stops Beating
Written by Savannah Olsen
The German Shepherd lets his paws collapse beneath his flank, his whine murmuring in the spring air. It's five past six o'clock on a Saturday, and thus, anyone lingering on the street corner witnesses Old Gray sweeping the sidewalk adjacent to the farmers market. The bristles of his broom pick up dirt like confession, and the middle-aged restaurant owner feels his eyes lose their focus in the shadows cast by the roadside lamp. There are cars that pass sometimes, and he lets himself count them. He only counts till ten; he figures any more would drive him nuts. Dog sure looks like he's waiting, Gray thinks, God knows what he's waiting for.
Before that, a dog hunches under the awning of the small building at the back of Petrelli's. Some antique store. The dog barks all night. He howls like a flippant teakettle. An old man pokes his head out the door, wishing the dog would stop. He can't stand the sound.
Before that, Mother chops red onions by the sink, tears pooling on her cheeks. She knows she shouldn't have made the meatloaf. Patsy Cline is playing on the radio. In a sudden outburst, she explodes into an exhale, shoving the vegetables onto the floor. "I thought we were having meatloaf," David claims over cereal. Mother tells him it was rotten.
Before that, David's brothers wonder why they have to wear black. The guests in the parlor try to drown their own whispers in tea. A dog barks out in the rain, staring through the pane of the glass door. When the children try to let him in, he turns his head and bolts.
Before that, there's a lecture at the city college. A young man sporting a cowlick spews about his job, bright-eyed and collar-unbuttoned and happy just to be working. He says something nobody will ever remember; something about the way the trains run in the mornings, something about the subway station. The crowd shuffles and smiles because it's all nice. Then he gets white in the face. Something hammers in his chest, and he stumbles to the ground. He doesn't know what hit him.
Before that, the man kneels in front of David, slinging an arm around his back. "Wish me luck," he says into his ear, and then "Take care of Riley!" So David feeds the dog after the Jeep recedes from the driveway. He hopes Daddy will be proud.
Before that, a young husband kisses his wife on the cheek and takes the lunch she's prepared for him. He parts the bag with his fingers and smells its contents. Meatloaf. It's his favorite. He can't believe she remembered.
The man hauls garbage bags to the dump nearby, dog following closely in his footsteps. On the way back home, they stop at the antique shop. They always do. There's a wistful feeling lingering in the breeze. After the man chooses a gift for his wife and places it on the countertop, he leans down and ruffles Riley's ears. "Big day today, champ," he mutters, not to himself, "I hope it turns out nice enough."
Before that, the city wakes to the thrums of its own heartbeat.
Before that, a dog hunches under the awning of the small building at the back of Petrelli's. Some antique store. The dog barks all night. He howls like a flippant teakettle. An old man pokes his head out the door, wishing the dog would stop. He can't stand the sound.
Before that, Mother chops red onions by the sink, tears pooling on her cheeks. She knows she shouldn't have made the meatloaf. Patsy Cline is playing on the radio. In a sudden outburst, she explodes into an exhale, shoving the vegetables onto the floor. "I thought we were having meatloaf," David claims over cereal. Mother tells him it was rotten.
Before that, David's brothers wonder why they have to wear black. The guests in the parlor try to drown their own whispers in tea. A dog barks out in the rain, staring through the pane of the glass door. When the children try to let him in, he turns his head and bolts.
Before that, there's a lecture at the city college. A young man sporting a cowlick spews about his job, bright-eyed and collar-unbuttoned and happy just to be working. He says something nobody will ever remember; something about the way the trains run in the mornings, something about the subway station. The crowd shuffles and smiles because it's all nice. Then he gets white in the face. Something hammers in his chest, and he stumbles to the ground. He doesn't know what hit him.
Before that, the man kneels in front of David, slinging an arm around his back. "Wish me luck," he says into his ear, and then "Take care of Riley!" So David feeds the dog after the Jeep recedes from the driveway. He hopes Daddy will be proud.
Before that, a young husband kisses his wife on the cheek and takes the lunch she's prepared for him. He parts the bag with his fingers and smells its contents. Meatloaf. It's his favorite. He can't believe she remembered.
The man hauls garbage bags to the dump nearby, dog following closely in his footsteps. On the way back home, they stop at the antique shop. They always do. There's a wistful feeling lingering in the breeze. After the man chooses a gift for his wife and places it on the countertop, he leans down and ruffles Riley's ears. "Big day today, champ," he mutters, not to himself, "I hope it turns out nice enough."
Before that, the city wakes to the thrums of its own heartbeat.
Found Poems Based on Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried
Composed by Sydney Seegers
|
Composed by Micheal Stiedle & Emma Olsen
|
Composed by Mr. Yorke
|
|
|
|