On A Sunday Afternoon, No Less

For there is no respect of persons with God. – Romans 2:11
I thought I had a ticket to the show and not the tell, 
a tangible paradise and not the usual Heaven Above, 
a place where a man can get the hell out of his own way.
Maybe you've heard of it. They say it doesn’t advertise, 
never hires, never trades, never drafts players and ferries 
them off to one team or another according to who'd 
served the harshest penance, who'd kept playing 
through injury upon injury inflicted upon logic, 
or who'd played for the winning team in the right 
colored uniforms—no, no, nothing like that. 

                      This place doesn’t kill for attention, 

and it doesn’t have other abject dependency needs. 
It doesn’t have needs at all. It simply is, like a basket of 
beach balls at the grocery store as you’re headed toward 
the edible produce. And today I saw something simpler still— 
an immigrant kid selling bundles of roses at my freeway exit. 
I was stopped in traffic watching the kid, and when the light 
turned green and everyone was about to go through, a family 
several cars ahead of me stopped to buy roses from him. 
They must have handed him a large bill and he was running it 
back to his cart to make change—all of this taking place 
as the lane to my right was moving along as smoothly as you 
please—and suddenly I was a shotgun loaded with impatience. 

My eyes on that stopped car and that kid keeping it stopped 
were like sights on a barrel, and I clicked off the safety and 
yelled out the window: “Goddamn it, move, you assholes!!!”
Which was wholly unnecessary. They finished with plenty 
of time for everyone to make it through. Then it hit me: 
How could I be angry at those people, and for no good 
reason since they didn't even hear me? The whole 
thing took about six seconds, an infinitesimal lapse 
of time, even in the secular perception of time. 
Certainly those seconds meant nothing to me, 
and yet so complete was my instantaneous wrath, 

                      so infantile and malevolent,

as if I had something more important to attend to, 
a raft of other sinners waiting to be judged, and these 
“assholes” throwing their wrench in the works. It was such a 
flash-flood of irrational fear, you’d think I had no respect 
for people at all. I'm guessing the ticket was counterfeit. 
Advertisements

One thought on “On A Sunday Afternoon, No Less

  1. Pingback: On A Sunday Afternoon, No Less | WELCOME TO AUTHOR SAED ISMAIL H.AWED OFFICIAL WEBSITE.

Comment Section/Memory Hole

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s