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...
