david macpherson : “under the sign”

We lived under the sign of carburetor. We slept in the rooms behind the shop. We made carburetors grow up right. What else could we do, living under the sign we did?

 

My brother loved a girl who lived under the sign of comb and scissors. They ran away down the street and settled in a storefront with a sign of a point can over it. They sell paint. They blend their own colors with clay and berries from the fields and mix it with a yard stick they bought from my cousin, who lives under the sign of the ruler.

 

My older sister took shelter under the sign of the red shoes. Mother shushes us when we mention her.

 

My younger sister became angry and moved in with the other angry people under the sign of the clenched fist.

 

This left me the only child with mother and father under the sign of carburetor. But fuel injection and dust orphaned our business and we became lonely for custom.

 

I went north for work.  I live under a sign of stars. Staring up, I wonder what shapes they form. What wonderful things are they advertising.  What dreams are they selling for me now.

 

David Macpherson lives, with his wife Heather, in Worcester, Ma. He is a co-editor of Ballard Street Poetry Journal. He is a columnist for gotpoetry.com. Recent work has been published in Tiny Lights, Flashquake, The November 3rd Club, Everyday Fiction & 13 Human Souls.

 

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