From where I sit in my office
door closed
trying to write,
the dishwasher sounds like
a hushed conversation.
I try to discern the discourse.
Maybe it could become dialogue
in my latest story.
But it remains vague.
As frustrating as eavesdropping
on my grandparents,
trying to gain inside information regarding
gifts and other secrets,
but their low voices
coupled with the German they spoke,
kept me properly completely mystified.
She knew a secret.
It was not heavy.
It was not difficult.
It was neither gray sky
nor thunder loud.
Instead, it was light
as an autumn leaf twirling
on an easy breeze.
It was a brilliant sunrise
quiet as a whisper.
In late August, the honey in my little plastic bear
has turned to near solid amber,
zinnias still stand tall but now with
Conflicting statements
rescinded truths
“Hey Gerald. I came as quickly as I could. What’s so
important?”
“Sherry, I have put together an amazing surprise for you. It
was a lot of hard work to get it all here, but you’re worth it baby. Nothing’s
too good for my lady.”
Sherry turned her attention from Gerald to take in the sumptuous
and romantic meal spread before her. Fried chicken, biscuits, fruit, a beautiful
cake, and glasses of wine, already poured, covered the entire picnic table.
“Oh Gerald! It’s stupendous! Did you really do all of this
just for me?”
“Of course my love,” he replied, anticipating the passionate
appreciation Sherry would demonstrate later. “Let’s start with desert, shall
we?”
Gerald leaned in for a kiss, but Sherry went to sample the
rich cake. She would have liked to have dived into it, but she restrained
herself.
“I still can’t believe you carried all of this out here by
yourself. It must have taken you a long time.”
“Don’t give it another thought my dear,” he crooned. Just as
he leaned in to try and steal a kiss, another couple arrived at the table.
Gerald’s face turned red and he quickly suggested that they leave.
“But Gerald, we haven’t had our lovely dinner yet. You went
through all this work and…”
The other woman at the table looked at her and Gerald,
disgusted. The man swatted at them, but not before Gerald grabbed a juicy grape
and made a hasty retreat.
“I can’t believe how fast those pesky ants moved in on our picnic,”
the man said to the woman. “I was only gone for a few minutes to meet you in
the parking lot.”
Gerald now knew that his plans for a romantic evening with Sherry
were ruined. She had left with such speed that she had all but left skid marks
from her fast moving feet. But hey, there were plenty more lady ants – and picnic
tables in the world.
Remember the way they rattled,
the coins on the dash as we
drove over washboard roads,
in perpetual pursuit of something to do?
We were nonstop restless
drowning in summer heat and itching
to wrap ourselves in some sort of
mischief or mayhem or both.
She will respect this, we said,
as we dove from the cliff above the quarry
splashing into breath-taking water
desperate to impress.
I know. The title doesn't seem to make sense, but in my reality, it does.
I have been so consumed by writing things for my clients that I have had no time, or maybe it's no energy, to write for myself. I normally enjoy writing poetry, flash fiction and the odd essay. But lately, none of this.
This isn't unusual for business writers. It is, however, still frustrating.
I'm going to change this lack of balance. I have stories that are pushing to be told, and I will comply.
