View from the Bottom

by Brian Foley

A man wanders into the open road, places himself in its interpreted middle,
and lies down.  He has done this for the view, in a spot not willfully obtained
by most.  This makes him feel individual, and often takes the time to tell
others about it.  His clever position, he calls it.  A few passers by look on, but
say nothing, as it's not a busy road.

In his apartment, he'll often lie down in the kitchen, the hallway, or
the bathroom, to see what he's missing.  His girlfriend feels ignored, asks
him to retire for the night.  'I know where the dust dances,' he says to her.
'You're pretending to be dirt,' she says.  'Who cares.'
'There are dry remnants of wild rice tossed about under the stove like stones
in an Irish valley.  There is a family of gypsy spiders who've set up shop
by the radiator.  A Q-tip is on the move.  You are jealous.  You will never
find them, because you will never lie down,' he says.

One day he gets in his car, drives until the tank is empty, finds new places
to lie down.  In a convenience store parking lot, he stares up into
the brute haze of noon.  He wipes sweat from his eyes, the smell of gasoline
has mysteriously arrived on his hands.  Nearby he sees the remains
of a crushed pigeon, its muted feathers the only source of its former
existence.  He lies back on his hands, daylight reflecting in his eyes, feeling
privileged to have seen what the pigeon sees.  He will call his girlfriend.
He will tell her.