LOST MOON ROAD: Fox If I couldn’t be a person or a dog, 100% I’d want to be a fox. I wouldn’t move through the world so much as in and out of it, soft and sly - silent on the stubs of tiny feet. I’d pick my way around and between, same as I do now, with a smile all sharp or friendly (you decide). “You be nice,” that smile would say. “You be nice or else.” “Or else” puts you behind the wheel and sees you gone. It’s the broken back of your life’s camel (full up with straws), a bite down hard on the hand that was supposed to feed you. I glance down at my fingernails; they always seemed a bit long and clumsy for typing work, but they’re fine for gripping a steering wheel. At first, I liked the pastel aqua color I painted on (borrowed from a lady with lots of pizzazz at the RV park); it stood out nicely. But I’ve been overthinking things and picking at it in time with my thoughts, making a sorry mess. So many things you hope will stay don’t. So many things you wish would go can’t. As I drive, I remember the last thing he told me on the phone. "I cannot bear," my father said (in a tone filled with teeth that made me leap to my feet and grab my keys), "to be forgotten." Magpie
