The moon was larger than a play-prop: a yellow cuticle in oil. Above a Russian theater with lightning rods for gargoyles, we spoke of bayonets, patriarchs, backswings. I said, Plato was a Christian. He said, No he wasn't, and handed me a three wood. His polo stained with mustard. Anyway, I'm barefoot, at Beshnakov's, on that Astroturf you got me for Christmas, and he snickered in my backswing. So I told him he was grounded and hit a ball across the river. |
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Brendan Carlin is an undergraduate at the University of Toledo. He studies English and Philosophy and waits tables at an Applebee's. This is his first published work. He hopes you enjoy it. |