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Prose Poem
 

 

 

 

Richard Krawiec, US

 

Prose Poem

Can't Get Anything Done

 

Kids screaming, dog barking, and the train in the distance hooting its angry moan. When he pours the scrambled eggs into the heated cast iron skillet, the flames of the gas burner finger the sides then erupt through the middle of the dark metal pan. A thick, plume of gray smoke coils then whirls into a tornado, rips the ceiling off to a vision of splintered beams and thunderheads. He stares at the few charred crescents left in the pan, the last bone fragments, black and pitted; the cremated dog.

Everything is sizzling. Flapping. Pulsing. Contracting.

His shirt sleeves slide forth to seam shut against his hands; his pant legs slither down to wrap and bind his feet; the watch cap widens, swallows downward. He staggers about, like a blind man trapped inside a

And Listen!

The soft, hissing crackle as the fire perches, ready to spring...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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