Prose Poem: There I was, minding my own business. (Dedicated to Hannah Knowles of the Washington Post.)

 

There I was,

minding my own business.

When nothing 

absolutely nothing

happened.

I'd been standing around,

minding my own business,

all day.

Didn't even take a 

bathroom break.

Just standing there,

not bothering anyone.

No eye contact with anyone.

Not a care in the world.

And nothing happened.

You can imagine my disappointment.

Or maybe you can't.

When you stand around

minding your own business

you have a right to expect

something sinister or foolish

or puzzling to

happen to you.

That's why people

stand around

minding their own business;

this is a well-understood

social convention:

An innocent man caught up

in a conspiracy

not of his own making.

But I minded my own business

in vain.

I went home without a 

bullet hole in my coat.

Without a note slipped

into my pocket.

Without being kidnapped,

arrested, or given a briefcase

with half a million dollars

in it.

Not even a trace

of radium dust

on my jacket.

I had a glass of warm milk

and went to bed.

And decided:

Tomorrow I will mind

someone else's business,

probably my brother's business,

and see what happens.

If he turns out to be an

international playboy

who turns into a werewolf

and robs banks during the 

full moon

I will give up Netflix

for Lent.