No ratings.
This is my homage to the Lotus Eaters. |
They chirp and giggle with endless verve. Wild fingers flashing they furrow, frown and fart with abandon. Around pastel monuments to sitting they dervish. Rhythmless save for the raw pounding rhythm of bare feet on manicured grass. Speechless save for the unseasoned speech of breathless laughter. I, clutched by the years’ legerdemain, perched on the fence stare strange eyed at home and the peris on my lawn, I, am a strange bird, surely, to these clear eyed individuals. Bent backed I weave my way past their table, ignoring their undulating cries. But they run to me, clinging like barnacles, luring me to their board. I collapse, high kneed into pastel chair, as they vortex around me, my brief case disappeared. My tie dissolved. They are gathered now, standing and in chairs. One produces a tawny cylinder. Solemnly, one produces a plastic press, another a knife purple as a concord grape. Like clockwork, they press the shapeless jade mound. The Knife, rising like a lightning rod, slices a piece for me. Green star in my palm, they stare open mouthed, waiting to see it pressed into the soft flesh of my tongue. I bite I chew and I swallow and wonder, as the cackling reaches crescendo, why leave? Outside my gate I wander wearily. Why not give up the fear, of sod on sock-less feet? |