|| Benjamin Green || Writer

I’m sitting
In a rented room
On a Saturday night
With a glass of red wine
Where nothing else belongs to me.

I let my heavy head
Fall into my open palms
And I stare down at my reflection
In the tempered glass of a computer desk.

I do recognize the tired face
Glaring back at me.

I wonder, “Who is that?”

The computer monitor goes dim.

The kitchen light POPS and goes dim.

I think, “It must be a sign. I am burning out.”

I walk out the back door
With bare feet
And it sounds like
A wet dishrag hitting
A granite countertop
As I wander into the night.

There’s nothing but fog
And trees
And darkness
Around me.

The fog gets caught in the branches
Of pine and eucalyptus
And drops of water
Snap as they hit
The ground below.

Tomorrow,
The sky will glow like a blue smear of ink
That leaks through a white linen shirt.

Bees and hummingbirds
Will flap their delicate little wings
Feverishly and unapologetically.

Their flight
Will create a buzz
That is deliberate.

As the bees and hummingbirds
Seek out more pollen,
The “Bzzzz Bzzzz”
Will quickly fade
Like a siren
From a fire truck
That is followed closely
By an ambulance
That both dive
Over the crest
Of Twin Peaks.

And it will never occur to the bees
Or the shimmering hummingbirds
That I have not written
More than a sentence
In the past
Nine hours
Until
Just now.