What a day to be alive
What a day to realize I’m not dead
What a day to save a dime
What a day to die trying
– What a Day by Greg Laswell
I grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and smashed it onto my head. The scalp was begging for some hard massage. The carton box flung as I punched it, hoping to drill a hole through and through. Two thuds from my left and right foot rung the entire second floor. There was no shadow in the room; early afternoon shadowboxing with the plywood door. I wanted to hit myself in the mirror – right in the kisser.
Rannie Taxi, 9:50 AM – I was running late as usual. The weather was almost humid; hotter than the other days.
Come, let me sing into your ear
Those dancing days are gone
All that silk and satin gear
Crouch upon a stone
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag
A dream of togetherness
Turned into a brighter mess
A faint sign, my spoken best
Now, now
Make way for the simple hours
No finding the time, it’s ours
A fate or it’s a desire
I know
The female character in my prose is nameless.
