<html aria-label="message body"><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: 22px;">A Portrait of the Artist While Looking for his Cell Phone<br><br>As I retrace my steps <br>my mind <br>goes too far <br>and I am now sitting in sand <br>on the first day of school and <br>I look across the playground <br>and Blackberry Elementary School <br>has the smell <br>of hot tar in the September sun <br>and everyone is gone and the bell <br>calling us back to class must <br>have gone off and I am <br>the lone survivor of some <br>unspeakable tragedy <br>but now I am riding in the back <br>of a Pontiac and the cool breeze flows <br>through the open windows <br>and my father with his stiff mustache <br>and twitching fingers drives <br>and my mother sits <br>with hands on her lap <br>and my brother and sister are there too <br>and I am pointing saying <br>“moo cow” “moo cow” <br>over and over again <br>and everyone laughs <br>but I know that “moo cow” sounds <br>so much better than just “cow” <br>and just before I hear the ring<br>as if from a distant place,<br>underneath the couch pillow,<br>the phone demanding my attention<br>and I hear my daughter asking<br>if it is a good time to drop off<br>our grandson, I am waking and<br>I see my bed surrounded by <br>vinyl backed kitchen chairs<br>in our first apartment on Cabanne<br>where we share a bedroom<br>and I know I am alive.<br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-size: 22px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- David Handsher</div></div></body></html>