Loudmouth

What can I offer?

A warring world where life is bereft of meaning.

Father on an amphetamine-fueled jag.

Mother, a dark figure, a smoke-like wraith moving through the house.

I stare and move my pen to the din of caffeinated voices, a garbled television, a tinkling piano.

The house is old and made out of coquina rock painted pale green.

I’m shoehorned in between them, and perched on the edge of my seat.

A whippoorwill spits an urgent call.

Someone will come in and check for irritation at 9:10.

Overnight the snow will turn to slush, then a sheath of ice.

What I’m Reading:

“The earth is warmer.
The crickets are still singing,
rehearsing for the last day.”

— Victoria Chang / “To the Hand”