I had started coffee. But from where I stood
shaving, it sounded like coffee was brewing
on the roof. I listened harder.
It was a morning rain percolating with increasing
intensity indeed. My ears were not attune to it.
No matter. I wouldn’t have heard the
coffee-ready signal from there anyway.
Why the coffee maker sounds like a truck backing
up is beyond me. A high of forty-eight was more
suited to where we came from, not where we are.
Why did we move anyway?
No birds in sight. Actually, a relief to hear the rain
instead of that incessant cooing. They may be love
birds for some, but not to me. All the beasts are in
hiding under rocks behind bushes sans coffee.
That’s the way I feel today; under a rock with
coffee. The words oozed onto the steno pad to the
left of my cereal bowl. Now I’m stumped.
I’ve been sitting here at the breakfast table trying
to answer my own question, “Why did we move?”
Cold coffee is about as bad as fried eggs cold.
I wanted something warm to eat, but wanted to use
the bananas before they took on the appearance
of some strange exotic exploding device.
They looked green and gassed by the grocer when
I bought them in the store, or so I thought. Totally
spotted in two days.
In days, they seemed to fill with an alien puss and
toxic gas. I pressed one of them. Why? I think it
moved. I’ve lost my taste for bananas since moving
here. Wouldn’t you?
Then, I looked into my empty cereal bowl. Some of
the tiny flaxseeds stared back from the bowl and
their cousins stuck to my teeth.
In Stephen King’s world, they would probably
fester into a living organism like the bananas, then
the last thing you would remember was the laughter
of the growing flaxseeds just before they put your
eye out with your spoon.
What is the point of thinking about a great banana
and cereal manifestation? It evades the question.
Why on earth did we make this Stephen Kingesque
To stop the pain? To end the abuse? To climb out of
one pit into another? To be eaten by my cereal
without leaving a trace? To be the plot of one of his
horror novels? To take part in God’s grand design?
Thinking back, there are folks back there who we
will forever love. But I’m not going back. Too much
Then I remembered the flaxseeds stuck in my
mouth. I could feel them with my tongue. I got a
another cup of coffee to rinse them down.
As I started to swish the coffee around, I heard the
faint sound of laughter. In my head or from my
mouth? Too late. I swallowed them and the
transformation had begun.
Stop! Flaxseeds of laughter? Wait a minute. Is this
King writing or me? My poem is possessed! How
did he get in my poem anyway? No telling.
Why did we move here? The answer may be like
words forming on the page. Yet to be seen.
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)