Would That These Walls Were Holy

The indecisive boom-box that vacillated between his music and hers lies shattered in the driveway, collecting warm rainwater in its fragments while crickets raise a chorus all around.

Booze’s gone, bottles broken.

No one knows the location of his fugitive cellphone, though the mud at the bottom of the stairs is strongly suspected as an accomplice in its escape.

The screen door, after quarreling with its hinges, has taken up separate quarters on the hood of the car.

One of her shoes will turn up under their trailer during the dry season, having become a home for spiders.

Several smudges of blood on the kitchen floor have arranged themselves into some kind of message. Chinese, maybe. Or Arabic.

In the morning, blearily making coffee, she’ll find her panties in the fridge atop a milk carton. Neither of them will remember how they got there.

Oh, J! Charles Emile Jacque, c. 1837-1846.

But right now they’re back in love.

This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s journal, originally published January 3rd, 2008, in New York.