Bespoked

Very rarely may an amalgam of South Shore detritus be welded well. Normally the sparks splaying about the workshop peter out. Very rarely do they conjure the conflagration that has become stoked so strongly in a being whose main fire's stasis is a smoldering wet log, that sighs and hisses in the damp fire pit of a sober September.

A scepter wielded by the sorcerer of grief, great swaths ripped by the swats of deftly maincured talons gape your armour. We all have our own images sharpened into a sickle of a personal reaper. Draped in robes or garbed in a tailored suit, a bare skull or a perfect mustache creeps in crepuscular nonchalance. A date rape predator or a guardrail without rumble strips. I grumble and sip and wonder and wish.

Death rattles and ample doses, repositioning preventing soars of a certain unobtainable scab. Seemingly normal questions poised provoke answers obsequious. One jigger of orange juice from concentrate to every protracted absence, and a visit to the nurses station to elicit a joke that jostled normalcy.

Once upon time a verdant August begged from his neighbor, natures equivalent of a cup of sugar. What he got in return were two packets of Splenda and an apology for the dearth.

They chorused the notion that there was no time to prepare, even though an abundance was a normalcy, and, while apologies showered from random places like a rainbow from a broken garden hose, I prepared to quaff my coffee black whilst imploring myself to never enjoy the taste.