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Stick People

In my stick figure world
there is always a mom and a dad
and a sister and a brother and
a dog and a cat. The house is square
with crossed windows,
a rectangle door,
a triangle roof,
and a slanted chimney with
curlicue of smoke rising in an arc
towards a yellow circle rayed sun
and a white fluffy cloud.

Everyone has a smiley face.
There is no ugly.
There is no stupid.
There are no arguments.
Everyone has enough money.
Everyone has enough love.

Sometimes they go to the park
and swing on the swings,
or slide on the slide.
All are mute. Everyone
is healthy and thin
probably because of the trips to the park
as family. No stick figure is alone.

The trouble starts with balloons.
Not the ones drawn to make children happy,
floating tethered to thin, frail, palmless hands,
sent on their way,
but those other balloons.

Now he has a voice. Now
she is empowered.
”Hello!”
”Hello!”
”Where are you going?”
”Somewhere else. You can’t come.”

The word balloons fill and eventually force
the stick figures out of their frame.
I try to erase back to their earlier selves,
but they just stand there, not talking.
I don’t draw a house on this page.

—
Michael F. Latza was born and raised in Chicago. He taught at the College of Lake County, Grayslake, IL, where he also edited the creative writing journal Willow Review, from 2004 to 2025. Michael has been published in several literary journals, including The Solitary Plover and Appalachian Journal.

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