He is a stream
That is solid
In winter;
Rushing in the spring;
Thoughtful in
The summer;
And mine in the fall.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The Grey Curtain
She walks the sidewalks with her eyes closed. Traffic jets by, her hair whips her face, horns honk. Trash tumbles by, catches in the iron bars of the gutter. She stops to open her eyes. She stares blankly at the garbage. It falls into the drain.
When she was born, all of the nurses began to tremble, the doctor took off his glasses, and her mother passed away. The girl's eyes were open, her mouth was like a distant horizon at dawn, and she was just as silent. The doctor shook as he tried to resuscitate the mother. She stared ahead.
She closes her eyes again, as she is accustom to do. Continuing on her daily walk, she passes an old man, blind and trapped in his own decaying body. He calls out to her for help, for some food, for company. Her high heels click with each step, moving ahead as the grey man has a heart attack.
Stepping off of the curb, brakes squeal and metal collides. People scream and curse, but the girl wraps her scarf about her ears and strides on. Sirens obey Doppler's effect. Police gather to cover bodies with plastic.
She arrives at her apartment. She drops her coat into the closet and watches it slump into the corner. The frayed couch creaks. She kicks her shoes off and unwinds her grey scarf. None of the windows are open. Thumbing the remote, she comes to the news.
Fatal crash caused by jay-walker. Click.
Famine in Uganda made worse by civil war. Click.
Suicide rates rising in America. Click.
Abortion clinic to have grand opening. Click.
Global warming threatens to—Click. Click. Click.
The television screen goes black. She walks over dusty floorboards to the window. Her mouth is like a distant memory. Her eyes are clamped shut as she stares out the window with grey curtains drawn over it.
When she was born, all of the nurses began to tremble, the doctor took off his glasses, and her mother passed away. The girl's eyes were open, her mouth was like a distant horizon at dawn, and she was just as silent. The doctor shook as he tried to resuscitate the mother. She stared ahead.
She closes her eyes again, as she is accustom to do. Continuing on her daily walk, she passes an old man, blind and trapped in his own decaying body. He calls out to her for help, for some food, for company. Her high heels click with each step, moving ahead as the grey man has a heart attack.
Stepping off of the curb, brakes squeal and metal collides. People scream and curse, but the girl wraps her scarf about her ears and strides on. Sirens obey Doppler's effect. Police gather to cover bodies with plastic.
She arrives at her apartment. She drops her coat into the closet and watches it slump into the corner. The frayed couch creaks. She kicks her shoes off and unwinds her grey scarf. None of the windows are open. Thumbing the remote, she comes to the news.
Fatal crash caused by jay-walker. Click.
Famine in Uganda made worse by civil war. Click.
Suicide rates rising in America. Click.
Abortion clinic to have grand opening. Click.
Global warming threatens to—Click. Click. Click.
The television screen goes black. She walks over dusty floorboards to the window. Her mouth is like a distant memory. Her eyes are clamped shut as she stares out the window with grey curtains drawn over it.
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