They grumble and stomp their feet
demanding word -- a few lines
posted on a painted nail,
parchment flapping in the venting breeze;
a rope dangles from a beam,
looped above a lantern, an old woman,
an elephant and a coffin --
any sign of life.
Will this do?
The hours flash past,
each day melts into the next
with only enough time in between
to unwrap the black from my back
and fall unceremoniously onto cotton sheets
before the sparrows call me out again.
I am lost.
Is it Tuesday already?
The valley fills with purple clouds
and electricity bends like a rainbow
over the horizon,
tapping its toe on either side of the ridge.
Paper lanterns hang precariously in the periphery,
but they do not move. Not one inch.
The heat slips off into the shadows;
even it is getting more sleep than I.
C'est la vie, they say,
and they are absolutely right.
Who am I to raise my voice? My cries
echo into a nest of ants
scurrying here and there with their wares;
I speculate on the odds of one
hitting his head on a chandelier.
The space is getting smaller.
Did we change the world in under an hour?
The champagne still buzzes around my head,
a pesky fly I cannot wave away.
Or maybe it's the sugar. Who can tell?
I never got my sandwich.
It's a comment on something, I'm sure.
Still,
he waits patiently for her to call.
After all, chocolate kisses are the best.
In the meantime,
the twenty-five cent alarm clock beckons.
Here's hoping it still works.
Post script:
Alas. It does not.
It spins quietly, but emits only static.
I suppose one gets what one pays for.
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