dishes, breakfast, sweeping, wiping, dishes, dress myself, brush my teeth, brush his teeth, toys
away
child caught in a net and dressed.
escape to the coffee shop for a latte
a moment
from my toddler-addled house
my three year old in tow
to walk away from
the sting of the little things
two men sit at a table, shirts, ties, “Structure blah blah blah Decrease blah blah blah Estimate
blah blah blah Margin blah blah blah”,
gesticulations
they look “Important” with a capital “I”,
with just the “I”.
they stand up
walk away from the table
leave their cups, saucers, plates and napkins crumpled up
and crumbs
scattered like bird feed,
(or could it be the Milky Way?)
on the table top
and it’s the sting of the little things
(are my son and i little birds, swooping at the table
for the crumbs left behind?)
i stare at them again as they
walk away, then stare at the
table, then back at them,
they never look back
or return my gaze.
They stride away Their steps
free and assured of Their
place
in the world, of Their place in the
galaxy even.
and it’s the sting of the little things
a deep, bone-crushing weariness envelops.
a sigh escapes.
i bus their table, put away the
two cups and saucers and napkins, coffee and burnt milk
linger at the lip of the cups,
grab a napkin
sweep the crumbs away into my hand –
for the fifth time today
and it’s the sting of the little things
that makes me feel like a bird feeding off crumbs from a table
when i should feel like a star in the Milky Way.
i “YOOOOOoooooop” at the depths of Thee,
as deep as where a trickle of water begins
Divine slash, magnificent infinity, proud stone.
They “yeeeeaaah” at you, divine blaaaah, dust and rocks.
Flew to Vegas, took the copter ride:
“Grand Canyon, yeah I seen it. Bloody big hole in the ground.”
Tick.
I yop at Christian minglers, dinos-awe deniers, suburban hat-check lifers.
Helicopter sites, glass sky bridges, canyon hike,
Tick.
i yop with an eon of hourglass sand beneath
feet in my
———–shoes
—————–on the ground
A check list of sites to loudspeaker about from sites,
Tick.
And my loneliness,
———————a hole/slash/yawp which cannot be filled
not by the infinite stars i see above me,
lying on the roof of your dead-of-night-blue Mustang.
Finally,
my yop bounces back from the stars,
Tick.
was it the one small yop
————————-to take it over?
Natalie D-Napoleon is a writer and singer-songwriter from Fremantle, Australia. She has played in bands and as a solo artist for 20 years, and has placed a pen to paper for for even longer than that. She loves garlic, words, and her husband and son. Natalie currently resides in Santa Barbara, California where she is a writing tutor as well as studying an MA in Writing.
–Art by Denis Olivier
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