The Waiting Room

Waiting Room

There are flowers on the table and bourbon on my breath. The dogs are draped to either side of my sore, swollen feet, and the air is filled with the sounds of strings gently weeping. The boys fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

The room is mine to use as I please, and I please to use it for drinking brown liquor and forcing my words onto screens once paper and straight on till morning. Something will snag. Something will tear. Participles will dangle everywhere. And then the words will rush through to other ears and those places where my thoughts have wandered. They will be as out of context as everything, and it is the thought that counts.

Follow them if you must, but they will be back eventually, most likely to haunt me. They’ll show up bearing flowers, their roots but a memory, and I will put them on the table like I promised that I would. Nobody looks past the petals when they have a drink in their hand.

All I can carry is this emptiness, as burdensome as a millstone, and as helpless as a shadow. It is the wait of a phone due to ring and the call you never want to get.

There is nothing left but to answer it.

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