My friend J— and I agreed
that it was gross to go into
a diner and see an ashtray
full of cigarette butts with
coffee-stained lip marks on the
filters, but it was ok to chew tobacco
in the stands at a basketball
game as long as you didn’t
spit into a clear cup or bottle,
that’s what brown glass was for,
and we agreed that our boss,
who we hated, looked hilarious
in the parking lot in the afternoon,
the sun setting behind him,
illuminating the little hairs on his
nose, and, J—’s dad, having heard
all of this, said, is there anything
you two don’t notice?
J— said, well, it’s not like we
could list the things that we
didn’t notice in the first place, right?
J—‘s dad glared at J— for a few
seconds, then turned up the volume
on the TV, and the three of us
went back to watching the war,
it was night on the other side
of the world, and every few
seconds the dark sky on the
screen lit up with flashes of light,
and a retired colonel, in conversation
with a cable news anchor, was
describing the action for us viewers,
gleeful, this ex-colonel was,
and on he went, talking about
propulsion and impact,
Tomahawk missiles and
stealth fighters, and J—’s dad
must’ve liked what he heard,
because he then told J— and I
that we ought to do something with
our lives, go fight for our country,
but J— and I agreed not to

—Published 6th of April 2025

About Kevin Canfield

Kevin Canfield is a writer in New York City. His work has appeared in The New York Times, Bookforum, Film Comment, and other publications.