for the Sunday Whirl (298)



There is mist, which is rain with a dirty eraser; there is thin
rain; and then there is concentrated rain. Rain’s evil spirits.

Rain turned the condo into a cave. The fabled uncles
dove into the bottomless lake; there are too many aunts.

Phyllis (don’t call me Aunt, I’m not your aunt) on the balcony
under a red-striped golf umbrella like a supplemental cave,

smokes cigarette after cigarette. She makes rings, splashing
in a puddle with a thin bare toe. A myth of small creations.

On the kitchen table, Mr Coffee radiates; sisters gather there
with mismatched cups and mugs and tell each other’s stories.

If a limb somewhere snapped and killed not Mr Coffee, just
his power, then what? Was that the origin of demons and gods?





Always good to hear from friends

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s