The Table and the Chair

The hour gasped. Choked on stamina. The backdoor winced perfectly. As he trundled through its yawn. To find us there. Painted like creases into the contour of the sheets. Peering down into the throat of his stare. As it tried to swallow what I'd fed it.

We were larva. We were drowning in the nest. The prick of wings needling their way out from beneath our skin. In little bites that never finish finding what's out there.

The traffic was there in my hand. I couldn't make a fist. The tighter I squeezed the more impotent my grasp. Words that try to take shape. Lives threatening to become real.

The whisper of choice as debate confesses. It never knew. Sober as any last words. The wind suddenly turned. And all I could do was watch the vane cock in a different direction. Holding my breath. So as not to influence.

Never nearer to. Never farther from.

Happiness.

Turning every llie into an excuse. When the table is full I will know at last what chair are left.