He had been bringing lunch to her and checking on her dinner plans for the past two years, and he openly worried that she wouldn’t eat well once she left. And she knew he was right, though she didn’t say anything. Already for that evening, she planned to eat a cold bowl of spaghetti-os and share a congratulatory toast over beers with the dog and fish.
She wasn’t sure how well the fish was going to handle the alcohol but she was willing to check it out. The damn thing had survived everything else she had ever thrown at it.
She settled at day’s edge
sun slipping into
harbor’s murky depths
She embraced salty wind
wildly crested water
She held twilight
among the glint of umber sky
striking dark waves
She let sorrow float
carried by silent tide
ebbing toward vast unknown
Some days are an exercise in breathing. Mostly me breathing out in deep heavy sighs that threaten to turn me inside out.
Luckily someone almost always jabs me into reality, just in time to cause me to inhale sharply at its harshness – usually just before my inside self slips out onto the floor to become a messy slip and fall hazard for everyone else.
Oh yes, true fact: Before I had trouble breathing, I thought the little falling man on the “caution wet floor” signs was the person slipping… little did I know that it was actually the soul of the person who forgot to breathe.
It was tater tot day at the work cafeteria…. salty crunchy bits of starchy heaven. Her heart gave a little leap of happiness as childhood memories flooded her mind.
Her children were away for two whole weeks. As her first act of decadent indulgence, she ate a bowl of chocolate Cheerios for dinner.
She pulled a beer out of the fridge, and poured herself another bowl of chocolate Cheerios.
Oh yeah. This was going to be a nonstop party for her.
Thirteen minutes of eavesdropping. That’s how long I usually needed to unfairly gauge a stranger’s crazy factor in any public setting. And based on my sly snooping of the guy next to me, he seemed plausibly sane. Then I noticed that his phone was fake, a pink plastic princess phone held down by his side, and the headset into which he was enthusiastically speaking was not connected to anything.
Ok, so maybe I needed more than 13 minutes of covert observation to sort the truly insane from the regular crazies. But it was all the time I could give to most people.
She looked down at her sundress, a bright thing she has thrown on at the last minute when her children begged her to wear something fun and cheery for once. She couldn’t remember when she bought the dress but now that she was in the sunlight, she felt like she was wearing a 1970s kitchen dish towel. The swirls of yellow and brown were the clincher.
Time for a new dress…..
It was early. She knew by the light that it was too early. She checked the clock next to her bed anyway, just to amuse herself: 4:06 am.
Even the dog knew it was too early – it lay sprawled upside down and twisted around in it’s dog bed, looking up at her quietly. And maybe because it was so early, she fancied that the dog looked a bit like a Picasso: a flattened canine with limbs that came out one side, a belly where a back ought to be and big dark eyes that bulged sideways over a disjointed nose.
She thought perhaps she should try to go back to sleep until the dog stopped looking like a cubist sculpture.
Yes, more rest would be good.
She had her first job and her first suit, a pale pink linen that wrinkled fiercely against her slouching frame. She was working quietly at her desk, inwardly distracted by the idea of the lively city bustling outside and fighting off a vicious urge to nap. She looked out at the small patch of blue sky visible from her cubicle. She realized then that there was possibly nothing but a thick dull line of plodding progress between this day and her death.
She wanted to run out but she was much too responsible to do anything so bold.
So she stood up, smoothed out her wrinkly suit and went to find the bathroom. In a town where no one was really ever alone, she needed solitude. She thought it might also be possible that she would cry. Except she was really bad at crying on cue so it seemed more likely she would just feel incredibly sad and lost for a little bit in the tiny stall.
That seemed like enough for her.
Yeah, she thought. Just like everything else had seemed like enough for her until the moment she wondered if this was all there was before she died.
Where was the damn bathroom??
It was notice
of a lost dog poet
One-of-a-kind “min pin”
with a penchant for rhyme
on the loose sniffing whiffing
and just generally riffing
the owners were concerned
the world being
nonmetrical nonsensical nonsuch.
lost dog found
laying on his tummy
panting out a new ditty
based upon the kitty
he chased around creation
his mind freed by the pleasure
the owners were relieved
the hot cat pursuit being
the end of his doggy’s block