What Nobody Knows
There’s a reason I like to do simple things
a carton of milk
a tank of gas
a pack of smokes
None of these people know what I’ve done
None of them know that I’ve served
thirty-nine years
They can’t tell from my face
an average-looking thing
pale, brown eyes, ruddy skin,
that I shot a man
that I watched his blood saturate
the fringe of his oriental rug
They can’t tell these things from seeing me
and from asking:
What can I do for you today?
or
Paper or plastic?
To them, I’m a sixty-four-year-old man
I wear glasses
I want Wonder Bread
a six-pack of Coors
a Lotto ticket
Have a nice day
Take care
Enjoy the sunshine
these are the pleasures of a free man.
Mathieu Cailler is a writer and educator who is currently studying at Vermont College. Recently his work has been published in Epiphany, Sleet, Two Hawks Quarterly, Daily Love, and Scissors and Spackle.
