Basket Filler

Linda Wojtowick

It’s like when someone fills a basket. It looks

good. It looks like the right thing. But that’s

how it happens. You won’t know the road.

Sometimes the largest fillers are the emptiest men.

Have you noticed that? For instance (name). Sure he’s quick

to smile, he snaps up shifts. He helps and skitters and sings.

It seems okay. It seems like the right thing. Like if something

dark is there- something old and rooted in teeth-

it would just be a normal dose. A whisp, thin as wands.

But there’s heaping and there’s killing. Do you know what I mean?

And frankly as the years slide by and back away I have

more and more of a time telling the difference.

I didn’t want to say this at first. But I saw him outside.

You know that night last week when the fog set in?

Before the ice? It was so cold you couldn’t drive away. You had to sit

for a while, rub the glass. He moved weirdly past my car from behind

and went out under the big lights. It was loud. He smeared and bent

up sick-sweet, spineless, shaking his hands out like boats.