Good Morning

“Good Morning … morning”.

Joseph opened his eye, the good one this morning, and brought a crumpled hand from under the covers. He unfolded a finger and scraped at the hardened goo around the other eye.

“Have to make some tea”; he thought, “Camomile to loosen the grit”.

Drawing the covers across his shoulders he rose from the bed and slithered into the kitchen.

“Don’t have to pee”, he thought “Funny … always have to pee in the morning”.

Soft light seeped through tiny blinds on the window to lay pleasantly across his face. A spicy aroma pleased him when he opened the box of tea. Stains around the burner pissed him off. He rubbed at the stains with a corner of the blanket draping from his arm but found them cooked-in … unyielding. Steamy droplets scurried down the sides of the pot and sizzled against the burner. He turned off the gas and let the tea steep. Sunlight swept over his patio casting haphazard shadows on his chair and beckoning.

“Cumfy”, he thought, so gathering his bed-linen cloak around his shoulders, he dragged himself outside.

He brought his bundle through the door; knees creaking and limbs trembling he settled on a wrought iron chair. The back of the chair felt snug, and the soft curve of the seat was firm. He heard truck engines rumbling in the distance; tires crushing pavement, air swooshing under cars and busses to pollute the air with smoke and noise that sifted through a line of trees surrounding his sanctuary. Jaybirds chirped hopelessly against the chaos. Autumn leaves trembled in the wind. Paul Simon’s song entered his mind:

_ "And the leaves that are gree…éen turn to brown … "

He let the words drift over his vocal chords in crackling harmony with the music passing behind his eyes. Lyrics entering at the periphery slipped through his vision like a bouncing ball sing-a-long and collided behind the eyelid still crusty with pea-green grit.

_ “And they wither with the wind,”
_ “And they crumble in your hands …”

He stopped for breath; …

_ “And the leaves that are gree…éen turn to brown…”.

He reached for his mug of tea and realized he’d forgotten it. The thought of pulling his body and bundle of bedcovers from his chair seemed cumbersome and futile.

_ “I threw a pebble in a brook,”
_ “And watched the ripples run a_way.”
_ “And they never made a sound …”

“He,he …”, he giggled.

“I say James”, he said “Ha, he, he, … won’t you bring me my tea”?

Laughter rumbled up through his belly and lungs.

“James; I say, what about a spot of tea”?, “He, he, … Ha, ha, … Who’eee”!

Giggles surged through stringy muscle reverberating off brittle bones and sending shivers along his veins. He relished the fireworks stinging his lungs, their sparks scorching his throat as they swirled into his head …

“James”! he bellowed.

A spectacle of color and glittering lights exploded in his mind, glancing from within off his pupils, dancing, swirling, tingling – disappearing into darkness.

Good Morning

Richard G Witham

Joined February 2008

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Artist's Description

What we don’t allow our self to be we can compensate with fantasy.

Minutes pass ~ Seconds Swirl … oh the noise!

  1. Copyright © Richard G. Witham 2009 all rights reserved
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