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Pastimes : A Poetry Corner -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: nihil who wrote (182)	1/24/1999 11:14:00 AM
From: Robert Douglas Hickey	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 1582

806 I was calling the dice as they rolled predicting the traffic lights weaving the lines into my own tapestry everything was perfect I saw the sun rise but not before fending off a couple of creeps trying to draw me into their trailer I didn't know we'd have visitors six treeplanting grrrls, straight from the bush. None of this is 806. 806 starts after after the sunrise drive over the hills and far away coming down again back to town, again taking Dad's Pinto to the corral 806, the Acacia Towers a woman in faded flowerprint housedress mops water from the front steps 806, she says, not a question, see my husband inside. I better take you up, the manager says and in the elevator: This ain't a white man's job I got here one time this guy, a mortician, nobody ever visited him had a cancer in his gut sitting in his E-Z Boy chair pops a main vein just opens his mouth and spews all his blood comes out August, he had his windows open coupla days later, neighbours complain, a funny noise the buzzing of flies he's in his chair, white as a ghost, mouth open the flies... took three months before I could rent that unit. To a high gaze 806 is pristine the dining table set books, knick-knacks in regimented rows pad and pen perfectly aligned beside the phone but lower the eyes and chaos writhes an inch of water on the floor. He plugged all the drains, the manager says and turned on all the taps, hot and cold. In the bathroom broken glass jagging up blood swirling through it. Found him in there, the manager says in just a pajama top, splashing and playing like a little kid. Cut his butt all to shreds maybe he'da bled to death too, who knows. It was the middle of the night nobody knew nothing, until the water started coming through the electric sockets below, shorting things out. A wonder nobody's electrocuted. Slosh through to the bedroom, in the closet all Dad's suits neatly on hangers but the pockets bulge, filled with empty pill bottles. Beside the bed, a new one, issued yesterday one hundred phenobarbital, almost empty. Hellava mess, the manager says, somebody'll hafta pay, we'll be in touch. In the lobby, as we walk to the door, the carpet squishes up water from 806. Robert Douglas Hickey