Seven -Leftovers
I awake not knowing where I am initially. AsI open my eyes the duck egg blue ceiling, the sky of my bedroom,confirms I’m home. I go to jump out of bed but drag encrustedsheets with me. The blue Westminster carpet is a sea. There’s notime to pretend that the carpets might be Persian. I am Xerxesroyally robed and somewhat disheveled. Temporarily adrift in aPersian gulf.
Doors open and close. Questions and noanswers. I hear different footsteps. In doing so I listen for moodsand not necessarily the people they belong to. The kitchen is hostto a blazing fire. I hear the crackle of fire burning bark,followed by sticks, then the intermediate split logs. It is tooearly for my father to add the rotten stump which will lodge in thechimney like a flaming hemorrhoid for hours.
Afte
