In the Hot Seat   It’s like you’ve been subpoenaed — you get grilled about everything you know, everything you did and what you meant, the room is filled with paparazzi and you want a drink but the water glass is just out of reach beyond the bubble of light that surrounds you. Isn’t it true? demands a voice. Each time you try to answer, all your words sound like bird calls, like wind rushing through the trees, a hard, merciless wind, and all you want is some water, not these questions, these reasons, these stories, these lies, these dust motes dancing in the light, swirling like smoke . . . just some water, you’re thinking, or maybe a beer, a cup of tea — you just want to go home. Anything but this, anywhere but here.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2019