Moth Balls.

There were times as a kid in the park behind the factory, across from the railroad tracks, I would hang around with friends attempting giant swings on the crude pipes set up as a high bar. Giant swings! With a mixture of dirt and gravel and broken pieces of glass underneath tearing holes in our clothes as we wore gaps in the day; immortal daredevils.

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The tiny two bucket seat sports car once defied intimacy, taunted with exposed breasts across the hand brake, Cathy Carol Marie Brown, who managed to braid her limbs with mine while we stretched the limits, stressed the fabric, and wore holes in the leather; intoxicated plyers.

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The cabinets, drawers, and closets now have a proliferation of snow white balls, the air super saturated with the vapor, small winged creatures flying, land defiantly.

My Pendelton is riddled,  the sweater I wear hints homeless, moths feast on my collected prizes, chew holes that unravel into an abyss beneath the towel bar; infested with the odor of my age.

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Anthony Cordasco. Farmer, teacher, silversmith, caregiver, blacksmith, maker of sundials.

Published in: Riza Press, The Healing Muse (2), Lucky Jefferson (2), Zoetic Press, Shanti Arts Publishing, Wingless Dreamer Publishing, Vermilion Magazine.