a tiredness seized me this morning. a weariness for stories. the bus i took home passed by the strange man's building. and i saw how the sun stained the red bricks into fiery orange. the way it will ignite the leaves of maple red then yellow days from now.
how can i truthfully tell myself a story about all these? should i include the big hairy dog impatient for its walk, yanking its owner to a trot? how about the smell of singeing eggs and bacon and home fries beckoning from an opened window?
i want to sing a song, instead. or, if courage afflicts me, write a poem. just no pedestrian story. no more bus stories.
warm sun, quiet air. the sky was fleckless and wound with color. i was one of three people sitting on a park across the strange man's building. i forgot when i got off the bus.
a cup of coffee biting my left palm. in my right, my ipod, a white and silvery flame. a firetruck, a police car, or an ambulance wailed in the distance. perhaps, on its way to corral the drunks, the parole breakers, the junkies, as well as those fatigued of stories, of yellow daisies hemming the park, of the uninventive morning breeze, and even the occasional rainbow, resplendent but always cold.
