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Candy Apple Morning
“There is no way that a writer can be tamed, rendered
civilized, or cured. The only real solution is to provide
the patient with an isolation room, and poke food into
him with a stick.”--Robert A. Heinlein.
He sat in the attic
on a sangria plastic chair,
near the one window
with its maroon curtain
pulled to the side.
His cheeks were blushed
from an excess of Merlot
the evening before, and
his eyes were blood-shot
Discarded and sequestered items
were scattered, stacked and boxed,
bathed in sunrise smoldering rays;
a crimson Elmo lying on its back,
waiting patiently for its tummy rub.
An overflowing box of Legos,
with the brick-red pieces
bright and cheery.
His father’s favorite red flannel shirt
folded neatly and moth-eaten, one
sleeve hanging out of the
berry-colored Costco box.
A ceramic current-hued tea pot,
chipped and sad, lidless and tilted.
A raspberry jam jar filled with
paper clips and red rubber bands.
A twisted-up pair of child’s
burgundy pajamas, dotted
with numerous chili cats.
A long string of lipstick red pop beads
hanging off the edge of a tall mahogany
framed dressing mirror.
A Bell quart jar of plastic
red roses, inhabited by
two dueling cherry red ants .
A large strawberry colored Little Pony
with pinto bean mane and tail.
A bulging box of Christmas decorations,
plastic candy canes, blood-red snowflakes,
stars, bells, and balls.
A pair of festive current and green
holiday socks with alternating stripes.
A cranberry glass ash tray
with vintage match covers in it.
A large ball of chutney yarns
with knitting needles sticking out of it.
A Ferrari-red metal model
of a ’68 Mustang, missing
a front wheel.
He stood up, cracked his
ruby-rashed over-washed knuckles,
peered outside at the empty streets,
and made his way to his bedroom,
with it’s unmade bed, with tomato-red
cotton flannel sheets, where a first edition
of Ben Hur in its Persian-red cover awaits.
Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub