william grappi

by William Grappi 

His friend is on the floor. He no longer moves. I wonder if he notices. Who knows how long he has been here, or what crevasse he crawled through. It still gets cold at night. Not quite summer yet… 

He paces at ease. And I watch him carefully. He is delicate. He must be at a loss. Why cannot he pass. What is this I feel but do not see. I want to help. Differences are few, after all. But I can’t get too close. Gently I raise the sill and there is a slight rush. I wait and he is still here. So I tap and there is a ripple, a slip. He catches himself and flutters effortlessly - into the open. I bet it was good.

by William Grappi 

I didn’t have a car and it worked well. I liked to watch her drive. And she knew when I looked over – that intricate peripheral sense. Sometimes it was a shorter drive to the liquor store. Sometimes it was a longer drive to wherever. It didn’t really matter. She had this unassuming Honda Accord. Older. 96ish. I’m still not sure what color it was. The reflection darkened on certain days. It was so low to the ground. But that suited her stature well.

 On the dash she kept this small porcelain pig. It was stubby and white with these rosy cheeks. Her birth year. I can’t remember how it stayed on. Must have been some type of velcro or something. It seemed secure, I thought. Sometimes when the road got bad the head would bobble – just a little. And then – well, and then it appeared fragile.  

First office - from Summer ‘11, Boston, MA