Prism

Paying the neighbor kid to blow the leaves off our sports court. Awakening to the glow of a laptop, hours before sun. Before, I used to just sit here in the morning, letting the coffee sink in and thinking about my day.

Down Utah Avenue where I work, the cranes standing idle. Boxcars stacked in rows by the shipyard, sparrows lined the razor wire fence around the dumpster behind the bakery. The homeless, who camp in a white Econoline van: two men in their 40s with beards, sunglasses, baseball hats. They’ve been there since summer.

In my office, heat maps, cost estimates, pre-read materials. My boss pulled me aside yesterday with a yellow file folder, asked, got a minute? Took me into a conference room and said don’t worry, it’s good. We bonused.

The fiscal cliff, on NPR. Emails from my dad encouraging me to write congress. Allegations against a high-ranking official over the West Virginia miner’s catastrophe, two years ago – just now coming to light.

The band Tamaryn, their second album is a trippy stew that warms the insides this time of year. Good with coffee in the dark, in the morning. Carry that scent with me the rest of the day.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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