Gram by gram they each add their weight. A little salt here. A little anger over there. A little blood here. A little sass over there. Each a perspective. Each a voice that never goes completely away.
Still, the old sea turtle swims. Never against the current, always wandering, always curious of the eyes. He knows the minute he stops is the minute everything starts making sense. He doesn’t want that. No living organism does. To find order in the middle of chaos is like finding one white man in a yellow raincoat slowly making his way through a flash mob of winter coats. Eyes are not on him until after the recording is analyzed.
The leaves stay green and the basketball dribbles on, making it hard to do a layup. Without change there is only getting older without the Budweiser. What a horrible way to go. The basket is too far and the mosquitoes envelop the baller until Gatorade stops recharging his battery.
Telephone wires hover, threaten to pick up the leaves. A katydid climbs down a windshield, ready to be run over and integrated into the cycle. Silkworms keep searching for the baby green mulberry ones. Lettuce is no good. Green liquid oozes out of the white. That is how a dream is destroyed.
There it is. The one stubborn reed that won’t stay on the clarinet, no matter how many licks. It is there. The spit that drips from the French horn. There is the ocean. The sea turtle is ready for sand. He has no conductor, but plays along with the symphonic orchestra. The strings. The baton. The chair flying through the air. The melody of breathing. Taken for granted. The drowning comes and no one suspects the leaves.
The branch leans over the fence, yearning for some clarity. Just a speck will do. Eyes droop to keep up with the leaves. But they keep growing up unanswered. Ursula’s poor unfortunate souls. Still, the old sea turtle swims.
A bicycle sits in a garage. A gift from a friend who’s no longer a friend. A leaf falls off the branch into a cream of mushroom soup. One hundred dollars taking a bath. It is there. A reminder of undefined legs. A distorted figure crammed with cupcakes, donuts, chips, hot dogs, and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Fitting for the distorted self-image.
The mosquitoes disperse, the baller completes his layup. But the leaves hang on. The branch snaps. And the fence feels the gravity of the trunk. Sometimes the leaves are too many.
This week’s prompt: write something that can be read in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette.
Image credit: You’re looking at her.