The Plank
Three fingernails are worn down, the index and thumbnails chipped. They handle the rocks the most. Soil, as dark as night is embedded in his cuticles, but he’s not digging deeper for any other reason than the earth holds treasure that he wants. Benjamin hopes his ship will hold it all. It’s anchored, corrugated paper that’s weightless in the wind, to the second stair of a deck whose age is heard every time someone takes a step, with a creek, crick; and his mother prays ever day, after yelling at his father, that the next step won’t be a snap. The boy says he’ll make you walk the plank if you misbehave.
“Jamison, I want it fixed!”
There’s no answer from the den where a TV as big as Benjamin’s bed is mounted to the wall.
“Jamison!”
“Papa can talk with his eyes,” says Benjamin to his friends, “but Mama never listens.”
