File with Care.
At midday, we look down at the earth between our knees, glad it affords us rest.
From Saturday (22 March 2025) there are, at most, 200 weeks until the end of Donald John Trump’s presidency. That’s 1400 days, if we don’t get out early for good behavior. As we all dutifully make tally-marks across our walls, as we all read and re-read our used copies of the Democratic Citizen’s Handbook looking for answers, as we all attend Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, and as we all feast our daily meals, we have ample tasks before us.
The days begin with a greeting to our star, the Sun. Taking the weight carefully across our scapulae and our topmost thoracic vertebrae, we each lift up our sackful of worries. A touch of the beard to tell us whether to afford a shave. The days end when we can stand no more. We say an adieu to the stars (and the Moon, when it glows). We slowly lower our bag-of-woe to the floor, begging it not to spill, for it would only grow fuller. And we douse our candles. The lids of our eyes having lowered with a clamor, our lashes bind together with a zipping sound to hide us away in dream.
The days fill with laughter in our hearts. That chipmunk leaves its crumbs behind, and we scold it that we are not its mother. That bird surfs on the long branch of the tree, and we stick out a thumb and a little finger and give a little twist to our hand. The sky repaints itself overhead with gray and white and blue, except at the tails of the day when it allows itself a more exotic hue.
The Digital. (INT. SURGICAL THEATER – DAY)
We perform our duty. Six layers of gloves. Lots of love. The pattern set forth on shaved skin with dashed lines that would make an architect ask where we got that pen. We have palpated the area, neatly walked across it. It becomes the path from the bed to the loo, drunk in the dark. That flesh is known to us. The scalpel sits against our finger, ready to open the Christmas mail.
With light pressure and a steady pull, we separate the layers of dirt. We shed our digging gloves. With a firm grip we knead and shape the tumor into a ball. We shed our baking gloves. With a thousand clinks we order our letters carefully and clamp them into blocks. We tamp the quoin into the gap above the chase. We peel off our printing gloves. Three layers of gloves. And still lots of love.
Deftly the fork breathes air in the mix, skimming the surface and pulling up a froth. Music comes forth as the tines barely touch the edge of the bowl. We shed our stirring gloves and crack knuckles, taking the sticks in hand and gripping the throttle we rev the motor loudly. We relish the tearing noise of the velcro coming off as we doff our riding gloves. One layer of gloves. More love than ever.
The sun shines as we scour it with golden fleece, with dewdrops, with sugar and seashells. Our hands slip free from our polishing gloves, full of love.
The nights pass quietly, waters seeping into loose soil to perform magic. Seed to root and bud, bud and root to stem and leaf, leaf and stem to branch and flower, flower to seed, and seed to soil. The Sun wakes. The day comes anew.