by: d. heidel

It’s 8:11 in the morning.  And those words seem to come out the color of a city bus, the scent of a taxiing airliner, and with the sound of a stubborn city tree.  It’s 8:11 in the morning and there is something pressing but commonday that needs doing.  There are always those things that need doing.  There are appointments and errands and the smell of skin that needs bathing.  It’s 8:11 in the morning and the exactitude of that moment – the exact statement of an exact place in this exact day is lost on the asymmetrical, a-palindromic statement of this forgotten moment: “8:11”