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Soledad
By
H.W Wolfson
It’s the rainy season. Everything always comes down to a wait. Wait to get caught, wait for her, wait to escape and now, wait for the rain to stop.
The floor is permanently wet, it makes my bones ache. Actually, I don’t know if it was the rain or the wait.
My pacing was constantly being interrupted by the corner or the bed. By the table that always managed to roll into my path on its three good wheels.
I wished for some music. Every night the rain was the same song which I didn’t choose.
To hear a horn, just once, floating through the air, calling for me.
That will never happen, the city has trapped all those ghosts. At least in this I already accept defeat, giving myself one less wait.
There are black beetles everywhere. The first dozen I crunch with the tip of my finger. Even though all I have is time, this method will take too long.
I soon switch to a rolled up magazine. Every article already memorized, it now serves a new purpose.
With this though, there isn’t that satisfying crunch at the end. now and then I switch back to my finger for old time’s sake.
They are everywhere. If I leave a cup uncovered they die in there to disrupt a future breakfast.
It’s all there in blue ink. She said that she’d be back before the rain. I leave the letter right there on the table. I know that if I kill enough of them, timed right, between the lines, I can change its meaning. A few more or maybe one or two really big ones.
I could use some speed. What was that drummers name? No, he was on tour and his girlfriend always upset me.
I hate for a woman to look sad or angry unless I was the source.
Besides, he was definitely on tour. No one stayed around for rainy season.
Every few days I used a disregarded shirt to mop up the floor. It was a birthday gift from Joann.
As a final slap, Kitten kept it around to wipe things off. Mostly mud or cooking grease. They never liked each other even though I came into the picture much later.
Now the shirt is a broom. My foot pushes and the tide carries little black bodies. Two pushes and it’s all the way to the corner.
On my third lap I pick up the letter. For luck I change its angle.
I look out the window. Some day the beetles will stop coming.
Copyright ©
2003 Wayne H.W Wolfson
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