The Ballads Of Mister Rhodes

As I walk down the stairs with dogs to leave the appartment building we live in, I hear the toddler that belongs to somewhat at the massage parlour downstairs. I double wrap the dog’s leashes around my right hand and stand and wait. They probably wouldn’t do anything, but it one should always take precautions when they are available. A woman, who I am presuming is the mother, rushes through the door and snatches the toddler off the ground and runs around the corner, pressing them both against the elevator door. The mother’s eyes are wide with panic. My dogs are silent, sat waiting for my go ahead to continue down the stairs.  I feel something like a registered sex offender must feel as parents rush out on to the porch to usher their little ones inside, as they walk down the street to go buy some eggs, and perhaps a newspaper. It is that reminder that you are seen as something you can be, and not as the something you are at that moment. I don’t blame the woman for taking precautions...

 I should write this like a sigh. Not a particularly deep one. Then delete it all, quickly, without self-reproach. There are, after all, parts of us that have not blossomed to be shared.  Songs About The War by Jamie Rhodes My dog is looking at me like I'm expected to do something. Immediately. We were out walking along an unlit dirt track the other evening. Some way out in front of us was the silhouette of a man using his bike as a seat, smoking cigarettes. Both dogs became upright, their ears tall. Low growls from both of them as we got closer. I wrapped their leashes around my right hand, freeing my left. A skinny Eastern European, possibly late for the sunset. As we walked passed him the dogs eased up, and I let one off the leash and continued on, listening for any sound of footsteps behind me. The dogs relaxed, and so did I. As I passed him, I took a short moment to eye what I could. His frame. What he had with him. How he was dressed. His expression. The notes of his voi...