Last time you wanted to dance

On these summer mornings, I take my coffee alfresco, and a walk to survey the northeast grounds. The grass has gone to seed, slowly ushered, bending yellow in a breeze. I look closely, and notice they are rife with stink bugs. Most face away from each other, back ends touching, cooperating in the sad and obligatory sex act of insects.

I follow the mowed grass path back to the house. Reaching the glass slider, as I toss off my flip flops and regard my reflection in the door. My back has begun its stoop and my chin is fading as it does with the men in my family. The prince in me does not acknowledge this stranger and moves inside.

Entering the master bath, I close the door. There is a substantial gap between the floor and privacy. The purpose, this I can only surmise, was once to give passage over a shag that has long since departed.

I turn to cleaning the repose of my morning coffee from my mouth, spitting the waning splendor into my imagined sacrarium.

I look up, into the mirror, and wonder what my face will tell the onlooker when I finally pass.

Cocking my head backwards, only slightly, let my mouth hang open as if I am sighing. This is a similar response to your recoil of my hand on your hip. Letting all my breath release, I look into the mirror.

This is an ugly thing.

I tell myself, "You have become a moth who only remembers mastication." Then I leave to work.


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America