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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v218) (the March 2011 Issue)		Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book: or as the ISBN# book “Fear the Forsaken”:

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The Small Stuff

Robert Lawrence

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Bobby.”
I’ve be hearing that since the Year 1.
But the small stuff still
drives    me    nuts.
I’m at the supermarket in the express lane
The sign says 10 items or less.
I’m within the limits,
a bottle of beer and a bag of chips.
But the guy in front of the line
is unloading 20 items
onto the conveyor belt.
Can’t you count past ten?
Did you flunk kindergarten?
Or do you put your convenience
ahead of everyone else’s?
Mr. Cashier, why don’t you
do your job? Tell this guy
to move his massive order
to the next aisle.
You don’t want to offend him?
Well you’re offending me.

I’m riding the L
pushing out of my mind
the big stuff that can go wrong:
The train lighting on fire.
The tracks lighting on fire.
The train falling off the tracks
The train attacked by a terrorist
or a run-of-the-mill nutjob.
Merrily I ooze into my crossword puzzle.
when a shrill voice shatters my peace,
a woman screaming into her cell phone,
“Oh, David, you know that I love you.”
I hope David knows,
because now the entire traincar knows
Does David have a hearing problem?
Or do you enjoy exposing your voice
the way a pervert exposes his body?
Next time, send a text message.

The small stuff, the small stuff
Like I’m waiting in the left lane
for the light to change. The car
ahead of me signals a left turn
after the light changes
and I’m stuck behind him.
Why don’t you signal before
you reach the intersection?
Afraid of wearing out the light bulb?
Whattaya think it’s there for?

I’m in the public washroom—
really gotta take a dump.
I slip into the stall and look
down, at a seat speckled
with droplets of yellow liquid.
Hey, bad enough you’re too squeamish
to pee at the urinal like the rest of us,
next time lift up the toilet seat
you disgusting, thoughtless boor.

It’s 2:45 in the morning,
time to snooze; I lie down.
The sweet summernight breeze
blows somnambulantly across my cheek.
Then the birds start chirping, real loud.
What is wrong with you feathered fiends?
It’s another two hours before dawn!
Those are streetlights, not the sun!

I ask myself why, why
am I so upset by the small stuff?
Do I have a rage for order,
a loathing for absudity?
Is each little item a splinter
and I hurt covered with splinters?
Or am I walking on a path—
the only way to walk is forward.
The small stuff—the little things
—are pebbles cluttering my path.
I kick the pebbles hard, and their clattering
distracts me from what’s waiting
at the end of the path:

a gaping, unforgiving abyss.

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