reypulque

the high ladder

The day has no direction, save the tendency to lean into the west. Dawn shuffles across the tree tops, it slides alone the roof. Brick to brick the shift is in. Sore limbs and hazy eyes make their varied adjustments. The fauna slips from bats to birds.

I wake up tired of waking, tired of the blunt edges placed upon rough dreams. The light is silt and gravel, I scuff the pavement, I gather the paper. My eyes yet too bleary to read, I carry a handful of blurred words up the drive. The stray crosses my path half a dozen times. Step by step I slowly approach the porch, a linear waltz paced step step cat, step step cat. It is cold for a warm day. The air is worried with chill winds.

I turn on the lights and open the blinds. I feed the dogs and wave away mosquitos. The compass is spun, the stones are thrown. The morning creaks with foot pads and radio crackle. I limp along while the sun climbs the high ladder. I pantomime habits while the world is lit and bitter. I pretend at work while the world falls blindly into another unwieldy day.