| MORNING SONG He plays less classical stuff these days and more Like the night he was crouched on the kitchen floor staring up at the dirty kitchen knife dangling over the counter top threatening to fall on him. His reflection had been odd from that angle through the knife but upside down he thought he understood why his nose wasn’t like his fathers and why sometimes in his apartment, his sneakers on, trash in hand to be taken out, coat buttoned, keys in hand, he would get stuck and wouldn’t move for days, wouldn’t even open the door. He plays on. It’s like a little surprise each time. Each indentation of its torso a shock. The ridges of the flute, the little tufts of air tickle his fingers He is stunned by his own gifts, by his absolute irreverence at the events of his life how he will turn anything into art. j. pastiloff Thank you for taking the time to read my writing. I will be adding more. If you would like to post a comment about my writing please send me an e-mail. Comments From My Readers |
 |
| |
 |