The Fifth Morning of Grief

by Adolf Talon

Come to think of it, the world is ordinary. You lay your head still on soft unstained pillows as you wake today. Eyes leeched on the canvas. Another morning of sweeping dust on the floor and a wise choice to sip that morning latte. If only it stays ordinary. The fresh howl of cold led to that first long sighing pause, then a wiser choice came to mind to succumb to that dark roast caffeine. The bittered lip begs for sugar or at least something sweet, something like grabbing a telephone to dial and a call into a spiral.

This television, maybe, may be the best case of memorial for every bitter sip. As today’s forecast only brings weather news. Today it reports the moderate rainfall, but only drought— no single teardrop

— comes to your cedar porch. At the high time, you remember there is nothing left for the weather. It is the concept of space you now hate. What lingers in space: planets, faces, bodies, with thousands of worlds beyond— so whose face keeps you now? once an image, to a silent movie, to a roll of film left in a cardboard box. Now art is drawn from your hatred of the stars. For their light glimmers not much as your favorite pair of eyes.

Comes another night laying still on soft pillows but wishing for more. More than blank stares at the white ceiling you have grown tired of. You don’t plan to sweep what dust comes in the morning anymore. It’s a sorry excuse. It seems the wisest to reject the beverages, it is now sweeter without them. Beyond the drought of the morning before, tonight the porch shall be flooded. The empty bedside space is the only concept that needs hating. No, the broken television plays until dawn, each memory cannot be replaced. Yesterday was faster than counting to ten for this bed to be ridden of the flesh-deep familiarity. The world to tread for no more lingers, but longs for mornings with a stranger that was once offered to share the ordinary with. F