Pantoublock with an Uber Ride and Traffic
BY SETH LEEPER
Mother, the trees are laced in snow and the streets have been scraped clean.
The sky is a pearlescent grey and the pigeons have flocked to the malls
on either side of the parkway. The rust is fading from the walls of the free
-way and the air is clear. This is a weekend in New York like you see
in the movies. The sky is a pearlescent grey and the gulls are flying over
the Hudson in an immaculate V. I’m chronicling all the happenings
you’re missing. Writing them in a sketchbook I’ll sooner burn
than complete. This is a weekend in New York like we watched a thousand
times, wearing out the film in our VHS tapes. Mother, the floor has been
collecting dust, and I can’t bring myself to purchase more pads
for the Swiffer. I’m chronicling all the phone calls we were meant to have,
but never will. Thumbing them into my Notes app. Today I saw a black
cat sprint across four lanes of traffic then saunter unscathed beneath
a synagogue. Mother, the clothes have piled high in the hamper and I can’t
bring myself to launder them. These days time passes faster than I can keep
up with, and I can’t stop looking back. Today I saw a mother surrounded
by her three children: one pulling on her sleeve, one leaning their head
against her hip, and one turned away from her, scrolling through a phone.
A bus drove over a puddle in front of them, dousing where they stood on
the sidewalk. When they made eye contact, they couldn’t stop laughing.
These days time passes in a loop I can’t break. The same cars pass by the
window, the same kibble goes in the cat’ s dish, the same long silence
continues unabated, uninterrupted by the metallic lilts of dial tones.
The sky is a pearlescent grey and the pigeons have flocked to the malls
on either side of the parkway. The rust is fading from the walls of the free
-way and the air is clear. This is a weekend in New York like you see
in the movies. The sky is a pearlescent grey and the gulls are flying over
the Hudson in an immaculate V. I’m chronicling all the happenings
you’re missing. Writing them in a sketchbook I’ll sooner burn
than complete. This is a weekend in New York like we watched a thousand
times, wearing out the film in our VHS tapes. Mother, the floor has been
collecting dust, and I can’t bring myself to purchase more pads
for the Swiffer. I’m chronicling all the phone calls we were meant to have,
but never will. Thumbing them into my Notes app. Today I saw a black
cat sprint across four lanes of traffic then saunter unscathed beneath
a synagogue. Mother, the clothes have piled high in the hamper and I can’t
bring myself to launder them. These days time passes faster than I can keep
up with, and I can’t stop looking back. Today I saw a mother surrounded
by her three children: one pulling on her sleeve, one leaning their head
against her hip, and one turned away from her, scrolling through a phone.
A bus drove over a puddle in front of them, dousing where they stood on
the sidewalk. When they made eye contact, they couldn’t stop laughing.
These days time passes in a loop I can’t break. The same cars pass by the
window, the same kibble goes in the cat’ s dish, the same long silence
continues unabated, uninterrupted by the metallic lilts of dial tones.
