Saturday, November 15, 2008

Morning in Los Moches

Morning in Los Moches

Morning.

Five am.

Am I awake?

I refuse to open my eyes.

But my brain is awake.

Half of it anyway.

Why? I know it is dark.

Ah, that is why.

The rooster next door.

Starting his morning duties.

Wake up the sun,

Get his chickens laying.

Wake up Croft.


The bass guitar starts it's pounding intro.

The song that will stay in my head.

Until something more important replaces it.

That could be a long time.

Grace.

Not the State of Grace.

Grace Slick.

The Rooster has awoken her.

White Rabbit throbs in the inner masses of my brain.

“Go ask Alice.

When she's ten feet tall”.


I refuse to open my eyes.

It is five-thirty.

The rooster, exhausted, has done his duty.

He has dragged the Sun from her slumber.

And cast her into the Sky.

His chickens are laying.

Grace starts her song for the (n)th time.

The other side of Croft's brain stirs.


It is morning.

It is Los Moches.

2 comments:

  1. Good Grief, Croft.
    You are waxing Poetic :~)

    Lew

    ReplyDelete
  2. A long ago English teacher of mine would have been very happy to have seen that. She would have said, "Fine, but fifty years late!"

    ReplyDelete