who the fuck’s that and where the hell
did they come from and how did they get in
and what balls they have at six on a Sunday tapping
on my door with the edge of a gramophone
recording of a Scouse poet?
About a minute or two afterwards it became apparent
as my eyes, still full of dreams in which feral cats groaned
their way into hell and dark forebodings managed musical acts
encamped outside the city and nomads boiled tea in wooden pots,
fell in tune with the rhythmic awakening ritual, cracks between bent blinds
wriggled into the motion picture and the sound checking wet wires relocated the source
to the bedroom window outside and a woodpecker systematically attempting breaking
and entry from the still dampened sill;
annoyance crossfaded to starkly contrasting miniature rainbows blazing
laserbeamingly through thick eyelids making their inverted marks on my retinae
only to be edited, have blindspots filled in from memory, shifted through coffee making
breakfast wonderings, wanderings in grocery aisles to recycling centers and dishes, bills and conversations to be had with loved ones and lovers, the imperial depth of tread on that front tire
publishing projects left undone, boxes of books to be reunpacked now no one was moving yet before moving to Europe unless the bailiff comes with padlocks and sheriffs and notices and cash for keys
if we’re lucky, if I play the right cards in this game of grab and go now while the chance still
avails itself and an unfortuitous economic upturn is announced on the ten o’clock news
and where did I leave my wallet and how is it such an impossibility to maintain much
needed fitness routines and eat right with all the room in the world? and I began
to wonder at the persistence of the little bugger and why he would pick
my Sunday window and if he really imagined he could smash through
glass and what he hoped to accomplish or if perhaps he too
wondered about a fresh brewed mug of coffee when
suddenly my nostrils reminded me I was not yet
at the theater and I saw smoke rushing in
beneath the bedroom door, heard swift
wingflapping, more tapping echoed
off in the distance outside
my next door neighbour’s
Sunday window.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Lancaster, California
Copyright © 2012 J A Lee
No comments:
Post a Comment