The 87

img_4286It’s almost time to go. The body snaps back like the rubber on a slingshot, hangs there limp for what’s next. The clock has a tick too. The cat understands no schedule. The rain has been going all night, it made its own blanket. From the kitchen on the radio the voice of Bob Dylan, the bus threads the cul-de-sacs coming closer, it’s slowing to a stop, it’s waiting for the driver’s signal, come.

About pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in musings, parenting, poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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