Still Afternoon

It is amusing the way words twist, no more than vapors, while in the neighborhood a buzz saw gets down to business. It is an afternoon with no where to go but home, away from the street, closed doors and sadness. An afternoon to sit and watch images of things that never were, happen in places that don't exist...happen in my mind with such detail, so quickly they are instant memories among memories of things that did happen, once, perhaps. Then a different fly starts and stops on the warm window sill. And the little, black dog, asleep on a penny, twitches and sighs with a dream, wakes to bark then, convinced, curls again to sleep. And still it is afternoon.

The big dog hears a couple of small explosions in the muted distance, rushes to the screen door, presses her nose to it, goes back under the table where she licks a crumb then, satisfied, disappears down the hall. I hear her flop and sigh in the dark innards of the house. The afternoon is finally quiet. I list in the silence like an unsinkable, wrecked ship. I will never cry. When everything else is gone, there will be one small hurling drop of water grooved in its orbit in black space.

-----------------------------------
* This may seem like a confessional poem, but it's not.