Bob

Rebirth of Wonder

Friends and neighbors, he said, the artist at the window in a ratty bathrobe! Holding, in the one hand: a chunk of petrified wood he's had since kidhood. Smooth. Rough in spots. Brown so rich and slick it drives him crazy. Never seen the inside, but it's there: the heft.

And in the other? Glass of Pinot Noir. The evening rain. The yellow leaves, driven off the sycamore out front: an early end to Autumn. Winter nipping at Her ass. His too. Long as it's red wine how can he be alcoholic? One glass deserves another, and rain keeps coming.

No reason to do anything. Thank God for rain.

His own last duchess in that armpit he calls a studio: half finished. Or a quarter. Likes it that way, within bounds. Still, in dreams she comes to him, searching, waiting, yearning, etcetera, as in a poem by Ferlinghetti: FOR REBIRTH OF WONDER! A woman, he recalls, began it all.

Kiss the surface one more time: cool to the lips. How far has he worn it down? Eyes closed to where the rain should be and one yellow sycamore. She's there, BEFORE HIM NOW! What pisses him the most? He hasn't given up.

A nap, a pot of coffee. Get her in his sights again. Keep her there until she kills him.