Hollywood, Paris, Covid
We both had positive Covid tests after
celebrating New Year’s Eve a few days
earlier. Her ex sent her a text saying he
wasn’t vaccinating their ten-year-old son.
She is surprised he got back to her at
all. She’s worried about her sons
attention deficit disorder. When she
had full custody of him she tried her
hardest to get him into one of the best
private schools. They all turned him
down. Too difficult to teach, they
all said, without actually saying it. I
tell her he is a beautiful kid. Looks
just like a young Marlon Brando.
“Yes!” she immediately responded,
vigorously pirouetting around the
entire room. “I think he must have
had attention deficit disorder also.
Look what he did with it though:
he was amazing! My son could be
amazing too, don’t you think?” “Sure,”
I said, “even better than Marlon Brando!”
Her voice instantly quivered. Tears
streaming down her naked yellow cheeks.
“I will put away everything I possibly
can. When my boy becomes an adult,
I will definitely send him to Hollywood,
if he has any interest.” Her ex that badly
abused her for years and normally
completely ignores her texts sent
several photos of drawings their son
recently did at school. She sat on the
lounge studying them an extended
period. “Forget about Hollywood,”
she enthusiastically declared, following
a long thoughtful silence, “I will be
sending my son to Paris!” she repeated
the rest of the night, along with a
luminous smile, more golden than Klimt.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, Big Hammer and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com
Image: Michael E. Arth, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
