Dreams Purged of Encores in Every Buttered Heart
Morning symphony. Twilight’s golden pimples popped. I am laid atop feathers, stretching, hatching, cracking into dawn. Eggshell fragments pierce my skull, lull in sleep, hunger’s creep staccato. The cadence of existence: plucked from carton, crash-endo against counter, crockpot, cupboard, chair, spider-webbing over sunrise, a chip in the cosmic coffee cup, chomping at stars. Knife smears butter melt in pan. Salt-and-pepper rains from stormy clouds. The stove clicks, flares, slurs, the shooting star plops to non-stick surface, sizzles, trills, purged of encores. Flips, sunny side up on a platter, falls down the hall, sunbathes in my stomach. How my mind aches, breaks, pours sunrays out of my lips that used to kiss the plate, pieces of shell sharp against my tongue that used to whisper in its sleep. There is no encore of heaping, leaping, seeping dreams, runny in my mouth, rivulets of yolk waterfalling down my throat. Sunrise/Sunset. Toast pops up, once bread. Sunflower heads hang dead. Petals mix with grains, whole blend. The kettle whistles, the tongs clap, encore, encore! I spoon a hole in my chest and butter my heart. Ritardando…
Potential at the Roadside Stop
Furniture on roadsides flattening grass, without a home to fill. Father sees coffee cups and crop circle stains on the table missing a leg. It just needs a fresh paint job, he says. On the chair the children will sit, all four squished, but where will it fit? We can make room, he insists, all while driving with one hand. The Ambassador connecting land with land, lit up like a Ferris Wheel, progresses just as slow, car by car, cart by cart, at 7, 6, later, heart waits for heart. Duty-free beckons with discounts and tags, all the essentials, potentials, from shelf over bridge to home. A new toaster, he calls, though we have one already. It butters the bread for you! I’m not that lazy. Do you need new shoes? Well… maybe? Check again, it’s such a good deal! Shoes would be great, but our toaster makes a decent meal. Maybe you’ll need one for when you move away. Yes, maybe, but for now I’ll stay. I wouldn’t know what to do with your room. A chair, a toaster or two? Father only smiles: Everything was for you.
