Regular Day

 

The Sun rose like a

car crash,

bursting through the

bedroom window,

all fire and fury,

demanding attention.

 

We rolled over,

my lover and me,

just ignoring it all,

even the urge to pee,

let insurance deal with

this bold intrusion of morning.

 

The blankets kicked off,

as it was too hot overnight,

our desire to be close,

overcome by a desire to be

cool, super cool,

which we are, in bed.

 

A horn blaring as morning

sharpened its focus in the bedroom,

Alarms ringing, bells chiming,

birds screaming their desperate

mating calls into the urban void,

as sirens answered.

 

My eyes opened to the shadows

licking the ceiling in a do-si-do

square dance between sunlight

and the waning dawn.

My lover, also awake, nestled her

head back into the crook of my bent arm.

 

The night before,

taken away in an ambulance,

not battered and broken in bottles and booze,

but exhausted from footwork and dancing,

singing and talking, all while smiling,

in sweet satisfaction.

 

Another alarm, no more snooze,

my eyes truly opened to a normal

morning, mouth dry,

another regular, day.

Another,

Regular. Day.

Ignotus Homo

 

I heard the sound of speeding

footsteps pounding

the sidewalk.

The quick patter of adult feet,

slapping hard on the concrete,

in a hustle.

 

I rose from the sofa,

to see, who might be running,

or from what they may be running,

or where they are running to,

or why they are running, so fast,

on the sidewalk, in the night.

 

But I never caught a glimpse,

save for a long shadow, trailing

down the sidewalk, a silhouette

of someone, unknown, running,

swiftly towards the unknown,

or my unknown.

 

A shadow, ignotus homo,

charging through the city

sidewalks at full speed,

maybe hounded by memories,

or bad dreams; speeding like

winged Mercury.

 

The footfalls echoed in the night,

as the mysterious runner’s steps

faded from my ears. The Doppler effect

as the distance between us grew.

I looked in the direction from which the

runner came.

 

Nothing chasing, nothing pursuing,

no mad dog, or witch on a broom,

no angry Dad, or screaming girlfriend,

no violent low men or police officers,

just the nighttime silence,

passing by, as if everything was normal.

 

 

Photo Credit: “Untitled”

by Fabian Schreyer, Augsburg

The Sky was Falling

 

It seemed, 22 years ago,

the sky was falling, and

the ground moved beneath

our feet in terrifying quakes.

 

For those that know,

saw it all, felt it all,

gasped and covered our

mouths; the sky is still falling.

 

Falling, ever since, in

drop after drop of

new paranoias, of new

fears, of bumps in the night.

 

The perpetual “other shoe”,

hanging over a generation,

like the sword of Damocles,

to pierce our already delicate esteem.

 

Time hasn’t softened

the sky falling,

it only falls a little differently

than it did.

 

The effect is the same,

the fears are the same,

for those traumatized,

the terrors are still falling.

 

The sky was falling,

only then to be replaced

with a horrible,

unfamiliar silence.

 

Maybe once,

the sky was falling,

and Chicken Little wasn’t so wrong,

to be so worried.