Anthony Tognazzini


Nothing Bad Happens Here

It's Sunday. I'm happy. My back is to the library and I'm facing the square of the little town I live in. Paid assistants wheel invalids in wheelchairs. Teenaged girls hold hands and laugh. Me? I gasp. There's something in my throat. I cough to dislodge it, but hack. An old lady with a hunched back smiles. The sun paints the Town Hall a buttery gold. I hold my neck. The thing in my throat is a pen cap, maybe, or the end of a very old breadstick. Worse things have happened. A string-thin air stream whistles through the object. I take two unsteady steps and double over. Do I worry? The pavement's sort of filthy. Some gum is stuck in a spit-mottled glob over there. Ice cream trucks round the corner, tinkling music. A couple comes out of a clothing store. I hail the police, but there are no police—There's nothing to fix here: every crisis passes. I observe the ass of a horse crossing the street in a processional. There's a parade today! Flamenco dancers on a hay-covered cart. It's a lovely little town. I go down on one knee. An involuntary wheeze strains my faceplate. A dog I don't recognize nuzzles my hairline and the world curls and crackles at the edge. Red dots erase the marching band. I opt for a nap on the concrete by the newsstand while this afternoon repeats itself, endlessly assuring. Where we live there is no mercy. A bright yellow zeppelin hangs high on the skyline. Blackbirds are perched on the church.