The sickness has arrived here just in time for Spring. Each new daylong shower sprouts ungray hues, purple, yellow, majestic white blossoms that remain untrammeled. Unjogged paths now only tickle four-legged paws and hoofs, spray them with kamikaze spores. Glo-Gang woodland creeps.
Training wheels beat the sidewalks with poor black plastic or rich rubber. Inflatable medicine, parents wearing backpacks, eyeing me hazardways. Machine gunner eyes and perked ears, as if the Can't Quit Now choir is just over the hill. Eyeing my cigarette, the poacher, a pressure sequence between us.
From the stair to the car is only metal and stone. Hard living that knows this house better than me or my betters. Once a day I check for frozen arteries, holes underfoot, new responses to my atrophy. The drive is quicker every day. The hustle, less so. Only need to move and make up a life for Ms. Whatsherface, why she's shying from her dying garden. She told me her name once, soon after I moved here. She might be on a dead bed in a white room.
The neighborhood is ... all the houses feel closer together. A lingering spiked ozone nips at everyone like electric minnows. To the park to walk. Fill my ears with oblivious obsolete. Don't really listen, monitoring the Pod People too. Each beating heart is a cause for concern.
The cat before the screen door before the dead potted nothing before the unlit window on the house next door. My daily cinema until sunfall. Rarely a thought. Bulbs burn out. Computer computer's music. Occasionally walk to another window.
It's like bobbing for apples in ice water with sealed lips.
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