The Overall Rhythm
Traffic skews right, then left, dodging itself. All I want is an honest cup of joe, but the cop on the corner waves me off, his hand on his pistol. Green sky threatens to sicken even more. The populace indulges sighs that make mobile phones weep. Chairs scrape across rooftops as witnesses compete for a view. Someone lies dead in the grass in front of the Baptist church. No, the corpse rises, stretches, grins. The cop questions me. Did I really think that fellow dead? What’s my motive? Stars bloom in the green sky. They
aren’t exactly stars but the buttons that keep us decently clothed. Or so the cop says. Who
am I, neutral citizen, to disagree? The infamous twilight descends at stroke of noon. Traffic halts in its honor. A skyscraper under construction sheds a beam that luckily misses everything living but stabs into the asphalt to become a monument to my folly. The cop laughs so hard he handcuffs himself and staggers away still smirking. Too bad the fragrance of honest joe has abandoned this city and gone to less pretentious sites. I should follow. I should abandon myself to the few primary colors left, and lilt myself into the overall rhythm, becoming intimate with my absence.
William Doreski’s work has appeared in various journals. He lives in New Hampshire and swats blackflies for a living.