Window

Carl-David Parson

Between

on our way back home

and it was eight months after

our driver’s window was smashed by some drunk kids.

 

What do you say to that?

 

“They are kids.”


 

The driver’s window was smashed and

for that

I saw no fault in calling our entire car broken.

Which is,

where I was going.

 

We were taking it to be repaired.

 

And as I rode

I had to point out

the sky was red, even as most of the sky was blue.

Probably eighty percent was blue, but still I couldn’t help myself.


 

It took some time for me then, to drive the thought:

 

there is change and we may call it one, even if it’s three.

Even it it’s a lot more than three or four we may call it one

before the between is complete.

 

The window was broken when it wasn’t

because it wasn’t there at all.

 

And when we arrived,

we shook the hand of a man who does so and so to cars,

we asked, will you replace the window please—

which, for some money, he would.

 

He didn’t look bothered at all. Maybe he didn’t know yet,

we weren’t asking him to replace the window, but asking him

to replace the past.

Carl-David Parson is a writer of mixed mediums. He has moved the way from Sweden to New York, to attend Columbia University. There he works, late into the night, on an MFA in Poetry.  

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