It is so damn hot. Driven outside by the heat of the house , I move into the night . Thinking.
Poetry . Collecting these stories , ad infinitum, that have poured through every one of my cross-wired senses . Every moment a fire. Every memory , this here now , perhaps soon gone and forgotten , waiting to reignite , in this thing , these scattered pages, called my life .
Thinking. As I sit upon this steps, mixing memories and possibility , I am trying to hold back the rush of my thoughts .
The night draws me in.
I hear a siren in urgency , the neighborhood dogs in their off beat chorus and I fight off the sadness of the memories that echo in it's scream , my thoughts fading into the black noise of the boulevard.
Headlights. Reflecting off the white draped boredom of the unlit house across from me on this dead end street. A place where I have called home for maybe too long . The road has one way out and I can see the corner. I think of far away places and how change is measured by difference.
My eyes chase a cat. She pauses her hunt along the gutter, as a car paints the night with a startled red glow accompanied by the panicked howl of tires . There is a pause, then slowly, they go on their way , the cat escapes.
Distant voices. A gathering down the street . I smell the scent of a BBQ and feel my hunger as the night fills with their laughter . Shadowplay , their gestures telling the story. A young woman sits on the fence.
To the East , from the edge of town , I hear the chant of a train horn, in surreal synchronization of a bat swooping through the amber glow of the flickering street light. Feeding it's own hunger, insect by insect . The train rolls on. The bat disappears.
Then I feel it. The breeze. The air rushing through the trees and across my skin , and I stand and gaze into the moonless night . Thinking , of time , patience and relativity, as my story sinks into this sea of moments that surrounds me , another memory, written upon the scattered pages of my life.
Copyright © 2014 Robin Christopher Amaral