Posted by: Ron DuBour | May 7, 2015

Daily missive for Thursday the 7th of May.~by Peter Forster


 

 

Daily missive for Thursday the 7th of May.

It glistened,
Picking up the light
From the sun.
Splitting the beam
Into its constituent parts
With a natural precision.
The Hadron collider
In miniature,
Creating a grainy spectrum
In the grease from the bacon.
She studied the effect for
Just a split second,
Not that she cared too much,
Her eyes barely focused
On the moment
As she nudged the end of a rainbow
Before wiping her plate clean
With the last of the bread.
It was a dew drop
And hung,
In a state of suspended disbelief,
With a total disregard for gravity,
A liquid stalactite,
That bobbed and bobbled,
Swung and wobbled,
But did not fall,
Until she drank the tea.
She lifted it up
Slowly,
And the surface rippled,
As if in expectation of
An earthquake.
But it was a tremor
Of human proportion,

And holding the steaming cup
With two arthritic hands
Wrapped tightly around it,
Her nails badly chipped
And broken, edged with
The dirt she scraped
From reclaimed pennies.
She took a sip
Barely a space twixt
Cup and lip
And still the dew drop fell,
For just one moment
Osmosis looked likely
To draw the tea into her nose,
But she sneezed.
A surprisingly neat,
And feminine snort,
A curled finger
Gently touching her septum.
Tears sparked in the corners
Of both eyes
And following a familiar
Furrow,
Channelled down her weathered
Old face,
To a fold of skin beneath her chin,
And bled into the cup.
She still held it up,
Waiting until her
Eyes cleared,
A million shooting stars
In every tear,
And wondered why
She had thought
Never to chase a rainbow,
Swim, naked, in the ocean,

Or sail on a boat.
Instead of collecting scraps
Hoping for a windfall
She might have lived
A different kind of life
And not for the first time
She cried.
This was no time for pride,
It was Election Day
And she was registered.
At least she had
Not lost the right to vote.
And would go back,
Once again,
To the old school
She had gone to as a girl,
And place her cross in the box
She thought would do most good
For all those people
Much worse off than she.
It was the least she could do.
And was thankful she knew
Just where she stood
In the choice between the red and blue

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