Close Quarters (One)

Art: Mark Collins
https://markcollinsfineart.com/

Things were fine in the nest cavity for awhile.

Specifically, when they were still in their eggs.

But baby birds—these being Northern flickers

of the woodpecker family—grow fast and trees

don’t expand to accommodate. “Move over!”

“You move over!” “Where do you think I can

move to, exactly?” They found some respite

when the weather was good, poking their heads

out from the hole in the swaying pine.  But, oh,

how they wanted to learn to fly so that they

could get away from each other.

“Good riddance!”

~

“Are we there yet?!”

Whenever we made trips to visit the grandparents

my sisters and I would be confined for hours in

the back of Bessie, our white Buick station wagon.

Proximity did not make us closer. No. Quite

the opposite. Space was a limited resource worth

fighting for. “Move over!” “You move over!”

“Where do you think I can move to? Mom!”

Although we didn’t choose to be together, we did,

over time, share in a common antidotal strategy:

“I need to pee!”

~

Find yourself an adult living in a metropolitan

environment and you’ll find yourself using public

transportation. Metro. Bus. It doesn’t matter.

There is a sardine can—that you paid for and rushed

to board—awaiting you and hundreds of strangers

adorned with summer body odor and winter colds.

“Excuse me, could you please move over?” “Huh? No.”

“Where do you think I can move to, exactly?” Ding.

Ding. The door opens wide and it’s every man, woman,

and dragged-by-the-wrist child fleeing, thinking

some form of:

“Oh, thank God for liberty and independence!”

~

It’s not really that funny.

There are seven billion people riding a finite

planet, all of them longing for intimacy.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From a book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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