The coffee brews as my smoke burns. The silence that fills the house broken by my music turned down low.
The steady climb of sound on Sunday.
Turn on the blues and light a Jay first thing. I wait for noon before I crack a beer but a joint’s just fine as the grinds drip and swirl in their filter paper. Searching for rolling papers and coffee filters I get lost. Lost in dreams, I sift through blog’s and files of any kind.
Text book winter mind afraid to feel too much guides me under gray skies on autopilot to the Seven Eleven. Not enough French Vanilla in the house and after one cup without it I decide its time to make the trip to Seven Eleven and the homeless guy by the trashcan. Sunday mornings are cold on the side of route 25.
Sunday mornings are cold when your wife is gone and she has the kids too. I wait to call. The coffee waits to be consumed. It’s Sunday and everything is slower. It’s Sunday and Church is open. God is watching. Football is on. The smoke and the fog slowly rolls, covers me and the music continues to play. The sadness of Sunday drips down through coffee grinds.
I turn up the music realizing I am not waking anyone. The house is empty.
Next door they wake up whole when at one time they were fractured. Broken I hear. Broken I walk by to leave the little bit of trash by the curb in the can in the bin. The bin I built out of wood.
So much is broken and as hard as I try with monsters hands I crush what is fragile to me. With a crack the tag connected to the tight plastic seal on the French Vanilla snaps and the countertop is sticky on Sunday.
I wait to call, I wait on noon and that cold beer, and I wait for my mind to set with the sun on Sundays.
The silence a steady hard climb.