Pink Sheets

The worst one can do in Beverly Hills traffic is to let down your window and simultaneously scream at yet another BMW that has nearly side-swiped you in its urgency to get somewhere, where? and shake a fist and perhaps reach in to the glove compartment for the gun that you have stored there in case, and the best one can do is close one's eyes for a moment, but only a moment, and remember the bell from the app on the meditation timer that you recently installed on your phone and that worked quite beautifully that morning, the first time you used it. Bong, it sounds, deep in your recesses and you still remember it, feel it, from hours before when you woke up, still dark out, your foot had ripped a tear out of the sheet and you'd only noticed it the day before, but this morning it was a hole, a huge hole, the softened edges frayed, the shiny mattress underneath exposed. Bong the bell went when twenty minutes were up and you opened your eyes, not realizing that the sound would bury itself just enough to make coffee and lunches and kiss good-bye but still be available hours later as your car wound up the endless driveway of a parking garage unable to park for the behemoths in compact spaces. A voice on the radio would declare that one candidate, (the one with white hair and many wives, the one who blows hard and long)  would say of the other candidate, (the one who is ramrod straight with five sons and a fortune) that he is out of touch with ordinary Americans. And you would wonder what an ordinary American really is because surely that candidate is not ordinary with his two ex-wives and his open marriage and his new-found catholicism and his wife with the booya! eyes.  Bong the bell goes, in your dark belly and up and out of your mouth as you turn the candidate's voice off and think to yourself that today I will buy myself rosewater linen sheets.


** guns in glove compartments are a figment of your imagination