Saturday, March 29, 2008

Saturday, March 29, 2008. On a desert island you never know what might happened. This is your morning wake-up call.

(In the mirror there is a lit lamp with shade. A boy settles up to his reflection. He wears a shirt and tie and ruffled his hair. He turns on his digital camera and shoots himself at a number of angles.)
I know your name is spelled with a "C" but I like it better with a "K". It reminds me of the mornings you stomped across the room from the sink to the coffee maker, filling pots with water and cursing when it started without you. Sepia westerns roll across the television and you asked why they never show the films where our rugged hero with his hair dark, fumbles his words in the presence of high heeled vixens who steal their voice but somehow wraps him up in the end. I took a deep breath to wait for you stomping to break. I said Saturday mornings are for fathers tired and waiting for the rain to stop shooting into his wreck of a yard. The suns still hunt through the cloud cover, so they dig themselves into corners of their living rooms with baskets of laundry, their first bowl of cereal of the week, draining all the milk with loud sip, silver spoon fallen to the side. They'd rather watch our hero, hung out in his older age, taking care of business in the west with his badge and his gun then see him fluttering in the wake of some broad who's too loud, clicking in her heels and snapping back at the words he lays out in front of him. Get out in that yard. Wake up.