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. It’s 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.’
©2007 by Ray Sweatman