I snap out of a daymare. The chair slides out
No telling the time gazing at the yuck brown sky
Nine o’clock? What? No, it’s only 7:30.
We love green. We accept green. We want our green superimposed
with a blue white. And bright. We don’t complain about the blue, but gray…
Gray we get. All of a sudden. Gray and wet.
A million shades of gray. Dark gray, sad gray, calm gray, dirty gray…
but it’s all wet gray.
Gotta accept the wind, too. Cold, leaf stripping wind. Trash bin tipping wind.
Gotta accept all the wet garbage superimposed on the pretty green grass.
On the chair again.
An unwelcome entry to the dry solace of this basement. He comes in.
The visitor is the inner demon, the tax collector, the assessor, and an impudent
imp in character. His grin is sickening. His hat, upon my nail, intrudes.
“Hey hey brotha man. How’s it going?”
“I should learn to expect you, I guess.”
“Yep! Every time the sun goes away. I guess I’m pretty regular!” He chides.
“Hey there… what are you drinking?” I show him the chipped teacup half empty,
the cup I’m already tired of.
“Vodka and cranberry juice.” I say. “You want some?”
“No thanks. I don’t drink!!” he smiles…. “You know that. You’re funny, dude.”
“What do you want now?” I ask, defeated.
“Well… it’s time for you to talk to me.”
“Talk about what?”
“You know….” He leads in, sarcastically. “A nice long good talk.”
A long pause ensues. I sip the teacup and decide to finish it off.
“Fuck you, you prick.” I say.
“Hey hey there buddy. You gotta face me sooner or later.”
His shoes tap simutaneously, and he folds his harms confidently. I hate him.
“Are you here to tell me what’s wrong with me?” I ask.
“Fucking hell yeah! That’s a part of it!” He chuckles, and his eyes brighten.
“Are you here to tell me what I need to do to get my act together?”
“You bet! And if you don’t get right with me this time, I’ll come back!!”
“Really? Can’t I just tell you to go fuck yourself?”
“No! You can’t” He chuckles with glee. “I got all the answers.”
“Fuck you.” I say, and start to shove him out the door.
“I’m your key to success!” He splurts, as I violently eject him. “See! The key!” He pulls out a golden key, and holds it up, as though it holds total importance.
I pull the key out of his fingers, snapping it between my thumb and middle finger.
“It’s plastic. Fuck you.”
“It’s not the real key! It’s, it’s… symbolic. You know that!”
I shove the silky wet fucker out the door. He puts up no resistance.
“I’ll be back next year you punk!” He yells.
“Ok! I can’t wait. Bring beer.” I say, then go pour myself another drink.