Piotr Florczyk

The Last Mile Problem

The gods keep getting paid, so they keep

playing gods. When I kneel to tie my shoe

I hear them behind my back. One tells me

to hide my phone in my pocket; another

chants of bread and water, glorifying

a meatless diet. For a moment we turn

into bobbleheads—isn’t that enough

to change the shape of clouds? I recycle

all cans and reuse every paper bag. Can I

do better? The question can only be repeated,

not answered. But while I shift my weight

from foot to foot, the traffic loses its dazzle

and beads of sweat trickle down between

my shoulder blades. See, at five bucks

the roundtrip isn’t bad. The Expo trains

are punctual. But the orange bus I transfer to

has too many stops. Why can’t people walk

a block? I’ve got three miles left—it’s too far

to torture myself with a recap of my day.

(I could’ve been nicer to Jane who suffered

a migraine.) Or what lies ahead. My daughter

will of course notice my frown when

she asks why we’re reading the same book

for the fourth time tonight, but not before

searching under her bed for leprechauns.

There’ll be somersaults, then a bubbly

washing of feet in the sink. Her mom

must stay afterhours again. So why can’t we

walk a block? With three stops to go,

I start seeing myself tugging on that rope.

Ding. Ding. Ding-ding. I’m like the bell guy

from Breaking Bad. I lean on the rope,

dream of tripping it like a live wire, then

running for it. One more ding and I’m home.

Yet until the doors open, there will be no relief

from the August heat, just buts and ifs,

and the neon Welcome Aboard sign endlessly

lighting up and going dark.

Kitchen Table 

I was nothing once

but loose ends.

Now I’m a plank.

A doctor’s office.

A barricade.

Man and beast alike

perish by my limbs.

The knife’s my lipstick.

The fork my villanelle.

What else am I?

Let me begin again.

Small Talk

Go on opening and closing the garage door 

while I gawk outside, curious about the squeaking

hinges and cogs that keep us apart. No, no rain

in the forecast, and yes, I have somewhere to be,

but putting you at ease will not change the fact

that an average American house, like yours—

a craftsman—is packed with stuff we call smart.

What are we trying to hide? How things work

and whence they come? Look it up, if you dare,

because that’s not why I am here, patting my hair

while you unskin me with your gaze. See, we are

neighbors who haven’t met, though my accent

has greeted the single mom across the street

and the shih tzu lover whose husband never carries

a poopbag. Woof. Woof. Won’t you invite me in?

The bikes, the mower, the broom—I have

bought one of each. Ditto the garden gloves.

The eggshell paint. The cracks in the walls tell me

we are not alone, but all I’ve ever wanted,

if you really wanna know, is a driveway.