The Expansive Particular

THE EXPANSIVE PARTICULAR

What ensued 

was this: it was right there—the word 

that he was after—but still so far 

elusive as a sun-spot. Amused at first, 

those in the car began to thirst

themselves for something more 

definitive than an airy “no…” to their

suggestions, the occasional “that’s not it, 

but like it,” but soon were over it,

minds stuck to their thighs sweat-

stuck to summer leather seats. 

He himself began to wonder

if he'd better let his mind wander

until he forgot the desire. That, or didn’t 

care anymore. It worked when he couldn’t

name what’s-her-name in that movie—

why not this? Or then again, maybe

someone had already said it, 

and this was just a case of mis-

placed expectations, like staring straight

over the person you planned to meet

for coffee because you imagined them differently. 

His need to know or give up needing to know

alternated like the yellow lines, 

or more accurately the exit signs 

in that they were interspersed a bit further

apart and each would lead him somewhere

vastly different. If you ask him where

he is today—hours and hours 

into the trip—he will say he never found

the finality he was after in the word, 

but in not finding that he did inch closer 

to articulating the nature 

of the one whose name is close

to—but is not quite—the silence

that ensued.