The Time is Now

Today I'm fashioning you a straight jacket

and tossing you in a padded room.

I'm locking ten padlocks,

and melting down the keys.

I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,

I won't wear them to remember you by,

I'll make them into coins,

and spend them,

and spend them fast.

The Cat in the Hospital Room

The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.

That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.

More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.

No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself.  He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.

The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will.  While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.

Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.

"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"

The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.

"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.

Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end.  With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.

Inspiration vs. Inception

You know why I'm sad?

I'm sad because I haven't forgotten

how to take the elevator down to level 18,

to  face my fear every chance I get,

to talk to her while she sharpens knives.

Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,

to help my shoot

my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before

she stabs me in the heart.

My friend, before she leaves,

is there to tell me to go back,

to wake up,

to move on.

Entrance Cue

My muse is like a migraine.

Sometimes he comes with no warning,

pulling my head down like an anvil.

Other times he comes slowly,

until the story is pounding my mind,

waiting for a chance to burst out

like a supernova time bomb.

Pleasant Company

Lucy set out dishes for teacups and tarts. A paint-stained apron graced her pink dress. She kept spoons separate from forks with butter knives. Checking her princess watch constantly, Lucy minded the minute hand. When it passed from one to two, she would have to go fetch the tea.

The guests! Lucy hurried to let them in. Her feet pattered against the stone patio as she made her way to the door.

"Mr. Bearsworth, I'm so glad you could make it." She carried in a stout, creature who came up to her knee.

"Did your wife make it?" Lucy helped him to his chair. "Splendid!" She followed with helping his wife to the next seat. Mrs. Bearsworth had softer fur and a fairer complexion, along with pearl dangling from her ears.

"Thank you both for coming." Lucy smiled, and her eyes wandered back to her watch. She gasped, and flurried to back door. "I'll be right back. The tea! I hope it's not ruined."

Pots and pans met with the kitchen floor. "Ah, there it is." One oven mitt on each hand, Lucy carefully set the teapot onto a tray and carried both outside.

She paused, the tray quivering in her hand. "Where's Buxley? He said he'd come." The corners of her lips dipped into a frown. Neither of the Bearsworths said much about it. Despite their permanent smiles, Lucy found them rather dull. Sighing, she set the tray on the table.

"I suppose we should begin." Buxley still didn't show. Lucy poured each of them a cup of tea, balancing the steamless teapot in her hands . In fact, the tea looked suspiciously like apple juice, but the Bearsworths wouldn't know differently.

Lucy sat down, putting the oven mitts down. She reached for her tea cup, and daintily sipped from it. The fields behind her house seemed even more empty this afternoon.

"How are the relatives? Oh, wonderful." The longer they chatted, the harder Lucy worked to sound entertained. The Bearsworth's had little to say.

Reaching for a tart, Lucy's elbow knocked one of the mitts to the ground. "Oops. Excuse me." She turned slightly to pick it up, and her head bumped into a large mass. The smell of musky fur enveloped her nose, and the hairs themselves had not been washed in some time. Lucy tilted her head back so she could see the rest. Her eyes looked at his belly, his fur-covered chest, up his neck, to a firm jaw and sharp teeth. Two yellow eyes looked back at her.

"Lucy."

She swallowed, smiling. "Buxley! I was worried you wouldn't make it!"

"You started without me." His claws grasped the back of the empty chair, tilting it back and forth like cardboard. He sat on stone  instead. Buxley picked up the entire tea cup between his thumb and forefinger, the claws scratching against the porcelain.

"You were ten minutes late."

"I was?" He glanced at the bulk of his arm, as if he expected to find a timepiece there. "Lost track of time."

Bridges

Between us sits a river,

too deep to walk across,

and too polluted to swim in.

________________________

In the waking world,

the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,

Impressions murky as Willamette water.

Even in dreams,

you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,

and you're as distant as she.

________________________

Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,

neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.

The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,

with your family witnessing our every glance.

_______________________

Our paths cross often, but never meet,

never join.