unintended feeling

by Jefferson Hansen

We played basketball in the driveway of the

group home in a southern suburb of Minneapolis

—three developmentally disabled men and I.

They were all in their 40’s. They laughed

and giggled when one of them made a basket.

They sometimes pretended to buzz off each

others’ hair where their bald spots were.

I was a little annoyed to be at work,

but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love them.

A man slouched in a lawn chair on a driveway

across the street. He had a large gut, like me,

and he was drinking a beer—I could tell because

you sip at a beer with a more pecking motion than

you do with a pop, for instance. I, too, like beer.

sky opens sad                         english on bas

this day                                   ket

the trick                                  ball l

the try                                               i

the whelm of over                                k

in the trivial                                             e

trick                                        normandy

His garage door was open behind him, revealing some

thing clearly immaculate. Everything hanging in place,

nothing jammed between one of his trucks and

the wall, both trucks gleaming, rakes and tools

hooked on the walls, floor cleanly swept. Outside, a

glistening Harley. Gothic heavy metal poured and spread

from unseen speakers. It was big and snarly, like a

Harley. His entire yard was cleanly mowed. You could

still clearly see the straight line left by

the wheel of the mower. Absolutely straight. 

            i say, “this                               ball goes

            is how u                                  flat a

            play ‘h-o-r-s-e’                        gainst

            & i hear giggles                       the call the crack

            ripple &                                   the wacky      

            ride the autumn                      wir

            air clear like                                    i

            crisp we                                       n

            r not a                                        g

            lone                                         of this brain or

Just last week, I felt nostalgia for this kind of set

up when visiting a friend in a northern suburb.

I may, at some time, enjoy talking to the man across

the wide street about the latest Slayer concert he

attended, or the joys of motorcycle riding, or how best to

landscape (oh, his shrubs were perfect.) But not now.

(from beneath the soles of my feet to the blistering azure

of the sky i perceived that moment that day in the quiet

breeze the rustling of the leaves in that weird tree that

always dropped sap on my windshield in the guys saying,

“watch me make this, man, I’m a cool guy” in voices only

those used to them could understand against all I believe in

I hated

that man

across the street

as much as I

took joy

in my friends

pretending to buzz each other’s hair