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{guest} ray sweatman The shaving cream has run out. Not even one last squirt. The blade has lost its edge. There are no more in the box. There's no more cereal at the bottom. The last oatmeal pack is gone. There's plenty of coffee. But the pot is broke. Junk mail is scattered all over the study where you read and write. Several ads lie circled in red ink. Every arc is in flight. The cat who curls at your feet has run out too. The door is wide open. The flies are getting in. The lawn is strewn with off white letters. The wind tries to form words. They roll together like bundled newspapers. Which on closer look turn out to be pheasants. Plump and freshly killed. One gets up. Its the child we almost had. Carrying a bottle of fine red like an expected guest. Which when the sun hits. Looks more like a fork and knife. He speaks in a language four or five times removed from its source. I stood in the yard in my morning underwear. Listening to him talk. Days and nights ran like thoroughbreds getting out of the gate. My beard grew. He said lots of things. But only this I heard: Every day is a feast of fallen birds. Eat. Eat up. |
