Minutes

Stiff-necked and blurry-eyed. The hiss of pain escaping cracked lips. Rows of red rice and burgundy trees. A lazy arc of a winter sun overhead.

Reading the minutes of a speech written by a lost man in his last moments.

Precise incisions to ease the flow of trammeled thoughts.

White letters pointing to cobwebbed lined roads.

Heaters on full blast and the rhythmic click of the gear shift between drive and second.

A big leather bag and stained canvas shoes at my feet. Electric blue weather mats matching my fifty year old flannel.

Alternating opened eyes as the the rays serve as blinding spears.

A sprained thumb, a year past, typing words.

An audience of empty windows— half-filled bay. Puttering boats pulling in dwindling amounts of squid. Fisherman and fish both head north. Hokkaido holds former residents of this southern edge of the island.