Three Prose Poems
I have difficulty telling time. Yesterday, the little hand was on the two, and the big hand was on the floor. The noise outside could be the wind or a knife slicing across an Adam's apple. I'm going to have the furnace fixed next week and have the repairman investigate the carrion smell in the wall. Sometimes a bird dies and rots, leaving a cage of hollow bones. In the meantime, when I look in the bathroom mirror, a face reflects back to me so much like my own, I almost say good-bye.
Sailboats slice the petty waves back and forth on their way to nowhere. So many fruit-colored hats. I have a smile more foolish than a bad toupee. Across the calm blue lake a storm brews like a cancer cell in a boater's chest. I'm as happy as that man who doesn't know what his body contains. I spent all afternoon shoveling yesterdays into the fire. I'm hollow. My happiness unmerciful. The sun's warmth is ominous. I don't know what to fear. There's an edge someplace I'm headed, but I can't see it. If you read this, send me a letter with instructions. Show me the holes and their camouflage. I'm lost without the past. I have two hands and two feet. It's perfect. Too perfect. I must be the one who makes others feel afraid.
Used to be, in a crowded room, my mind was a loaded gun, pointed at my own chest. Then I reinvented apathy after it went out of style, but no one came to the award ceremony. That's why I'm aiming my heater elsewhere these days and why my victims always wear tuxedos. They never know they're dead until years later, and some foolish doctor lists the reason as natural causes. Like a rubber hose, I leave no marks. I'm especially dangerous when I'm smiling, holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres, complimenting the hostess on her fine assortment of foods to choke on.