Poetry: Feed Cat

A friend of mine once confessed
that he had spent each summer
landscaping
and thinking of death
specifically, his death –
which grew closer
and closer
with every lazy turn
of a rented lawnmower.
Apparently –
the condition is catching
as I find myself
in my idle moments
reminding myself
that I will not be.
However –
while death was,
for my friend,
a lens
in which his every action was reflected
(this is me, mowing the lawn,
dying)
for me
is a box on my to-do list
as yet unchecked.
Get milk.
Cease to be.
Feed cat.

J. Patrick Brown

Fiction: Day Traders

“It’s only practice, but the boy’s been down too long. You train your kids to get up and back into the huddle as quickly as possible, even if they’ve just given up a big play. Especially then—quick recovery shows confidence, strength. You’re almost men, you tell them, so writhing on the ground won’t draw a late flag: Save the histrionics for soccer, and go look it up if you don’t know what histrionics means…” [more]

David Moskowitz