Glitter; a Murder of Marred Juvenilia

[ 1 ]

Gray splices of wood
bind themselves on the chalk-white
shed door. The peachy bricks are
still warm from last night.
What a dim bulb, I think. It lingers
over the large green cans.
A dozen pedestrians
meander by, racing
to clock in for Monday morning.
The white shed doors intently
watch the people passing by.
Curiously, they are slightly split.
Heaps of black plastic
droop over one another,
anxious to be weighted and lifted.
A green vehicle pulls in
the space next to the cubicle.
A tall man steps out
and rummages through a cardboard box.
A glass snow-globe emerges from the clutter.
Tiny pages of glitter rain down
on a cramped-up underwater city.
The freeway carries on over head.
They don’t stop.
They don’t look.
If they knew, they would snap their
spines just to catch a glimpse.
I pour more tea into my mouth
as I stare into the open slit of the twin doors.

[ 2 ]

On the other hand,
the great investigator
analyzes shimmering drizzled dust,
hoping for unfamiliar
grooves and furrows.
The exhausted horse-haired brush
sweeps from left to right.
Wasted minutes slip
by suddenly.
They bring in the canine.
Several pieces of worn out sweaters are
set out as homework.
Stacks of small wooden
Brazilian dolls rest
on top to a frayed newspaper.
Splotches of calligraphy ink cover up
February’s headline.
The bedroom walls are still smooth and spotless.
Nothing has been
touched or even grazed.
Not even the linen is stained.
The great investigator gnaws on
the very end of his pen.
This illusive event procures
a multi-media fanfare.
Arrangements are considered.
Uniforms zoom by
promptly on cue. A shoebox
of Polaroid photographs
is carefully cradled.
They will be revised,
hole-punched,
and spread all over the graphers.
The front door clicks closed.
The house goes silent.
He sits on the edge of a quilted bed,
tugging at the corner
of a teddy bear’s brown ear.
He stares off into a
personal pocket of daydreams,
yet sees nothing
but her sun-freckled cheeks.

[ 3 ]

It is 11:23 now.
The sun is barely passing over the peak
of the buildings. I vigilantly
wipe down my office
windows with a foamy blue
solvent, lifting up smudges
that had over-stayed their welcome.
The parking lot is full.
Colorful steel glimmers from the
freeway rims.
The old white doors
seem to sigh as the wind knocks into them.
Then, I notice two men striding
over to the bin behind these doors.
The copper catch falls abruptly
and dangles down.
One of the men ashes
his cigarette on a red brick.
I stop wiping my window.
The thunder of bin-wheels echoes.
The men laugh about
something irrelevant.
I hold my breath.
They roll the crate further down the lot
until I can no longer see it.
The waste of the week
is imposed on someone else.
The white doors are open,
swaying back and forth.
The rusted hinges creak;
I can hear them clearly through
my pristine office windows.
The slamming of fingertips
on keyboards comforts me.
I fold the dirty yellow cloth and place it
on my desk. The blue
solvent splashes on my shoes.
My computer screen
blinks impatiently, upset
that I have gone on ignoring it so.
3 new e-mails furiously flash.
I close my blinds satisfied and go back to work.

[ 4 ]

Weeks have come and gone
like seasons. The holidays
were over looked this year.
In a busy office with navy blue suits
and intercom speakers.
Lost labeled folders get
trampled over by more recent
emergencies.
Somewhere else,
in a sterile house,
skinny cobwebs appear
underneath the bookshelves.
the television pushes fuzzy
pictures and noises
in front of his eyes,
yet he sees nothing
but her sun-freckled cheeks.
down the hall, beyond
the dark kitchen linoleum floors,
her door is closed shut.
It guards the Brazilian dolls, the quilted bed,
the calligraphy ink set,
and her snow-globe birthday gift.
Tiny pages of glitter
sleep soundly inside
the cramped-up underwater city.

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