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The Litter Box by Janet Buck Two metal doors open like yawning jaws. I'd rather be scaling a cliff than walking this crumbling road. The smell is indefinable, yet certain as heavy stones dropping in a quiet pond. Hard-won wisdom painted on the sterile walls. Tainted gowns and nurses in a footrace just to end their shifts. It's called a home, but I have yet to see a hearth. Bad news runs down gutters hanging from the roof. Tired plants and faded tulips swapping tales of coming gloom. I could wander this place for hours, sorting through old skeletons and sore excuses for love. Get well cards are cosmic jokes -- pocket change from those with health who cannot aim their pupils straight at rising tides of suffering. Sacks beneath the panicked eyes like miniscule croissants of time. Baby food and bile green asparagus -- springtime canned in memory. Someone tacks up Christmas wreaths in mid-July since holidays are poker chips. This litter box where fate has gathered pigeon droppings in a square and no one wants a whiff of truth. © Janet Buck « Home | Contributor Notes » |
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