Survivor's Glee
I strapped on an oxygen tank and dove into the past, paddling back through the years,
emerging from a manhole on memory lane. The boondocks were doing just fine without me.
The car dealerships. The trash heaps. The stream of consciousness where I learned how to skinny-dip
had slowed down to a trickle of amnesia. All the houses had been gutted, except mine,
where my family was still eating dinner. My parents welcomed me with open elbows, my brother
looked up to me like a cave drawing on the ceiling. The night hobbled by, rattling its beggar's cup.
A pipe burst behind my eyes, which brought out the plumber in everyone. At a loss for words
I placed a seashell on my tongue, and my relatives wore bathing suits when they spoke to me.
Jeffrey McDaniel
