There is nothing left but this
There is nothing left but this blue page, black pen; café and its ‘60s music, the hum of a fridge, the rattle of crockery and the soft breeze from the overhead fans. Cars cruising past from time-to-time – that’s not 25 miles per hour! And the sky out the window pressing to get in, like the deer that smashed through the glass door here two days ago. Sooner or later it all gets in. Nature never stops, that is Her way.
Birds across the way peck in the tall grass for treats. They eat like birds. Why is it when someone doesn’t eat much, we say they eat like birds? Birds eat something like twice their own bodyweight every day. Only fat people and weightlifters eat like birds, and even they couldn’t keep up.
The trees reach for the sky, never realizing they’re already in it, and we’re all caught unawares. The green traffic lights shine my way, saying go, go, go, and I stop here, anarchic. And in their redness, two dragon eyes appear and glare accusingly, threateningly at me. What did I do? Why me?
There is nothing left but this: me and my crossed legs afore the timber table, resting uneasily in the armchair – camouflaged out the side of my eye, purple-yellow patterns when it stares right at me.
There is nothing left but this, me and this and that.