molten lava pours outta my ears as I try to find equilibrium
in the fluorescent lights
brightening a dull day while reading a book
that doesn’t make much sense to me,
but i have my spanish dictionary with me, so
hopefully the story is en espanol
hands clasping down on a mug of coffee,
on a blithe morning as the sprinklers turn on
to complement the grassy dew freckled across the yard
as a glistening reminder that i haven’t cut the grass
in four months,
and my neighbors might hate me because i’m a socialist,
or because i haven’t paid my hoa dues since i moved in
running from the scene of a place with no crime
in borrowed shoes with holes that have no meaning,
with small cuts all across my hand from unknown sources, unknown forces,
converging all at once and without warning,
the music stops,
there are no more chairs
Fred Aiken Writing 