There is a beautiful ring made from a spoon on the piano and a message on the kitchen cabinet. There is Chet Baker singing in the background and scrawls on a yellow pad. The room is a little cold. When the music stops, the wall clock clicking off seconds seems impossibly loud. Time itself is not an issue. Any distance is not too far. I used to have directions to a certain house, through a roundabout, past a grocery store where they sold flowers. I could find it, wearing a green plaid shirt that once had the buttons torn off while everyone except one uncle slept. It can get away from you, this living. I could knock on the door with a safety pin holding the shirt closed. Its a riddle. What to do when everythings perfect. Directions that once were true, not one street sign missed, a shirt long ago repaired, a house where someone lived once. Each second that clicks becomes a measure of the past and what you cant do about it. Just now. Like that. Sirens build and fade. For someone, time is racing. What happens next matters too.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Apr 2014 05:16:59 +0000
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