Howie Good


The View from Here

I’m watering the indoor plants when the doorbell rings. It’s you, and you’re bleeding from an ear.
“What happened to your ear?” I ask. You touch it. Your fingers come away with blood. “Steely
Dan on the headphones,” you say. I don’t move, don’t even nod. Now that an estimated 150
species go extinct every day, I try not to rush through my days. And if, as sometimes happens, it
feels like everything is speeding up, I’ll lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling or out
the window, my view a small thing but all my own.