Wednesday 1/17/2007 11:38:00 PM

He spoke his words like they were wilted lettuce. Born and growing and dying at last. Unconsumed. No salad fork. No dressing. For anything he had left. Big leaves blushing brown against the press of time. Slowly. The way moisture darkens ceilings in varied stages of rainfall.

Searching for a pattern. To lead me back to the source.

I took small bites at first. Changing forks often. Tunnelling toward the bottom of the plate in forced gulps. The fat lady in an opera of sex. Singing so loudly to an empty audience.

Searching.

Those wilted leaves for an indication of life. Chewing on those brown spots.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.