shelter

The rain came down as the evening settled in, heavy and cold and unconcerned with the forecast. It flowed down the eaves, spilling from the uncleaned gutters, drumming upon tin and steel and plastic as the water found its way. I awoke from some blank dream into a brief respite from my sorry heart and my sore headed soul. The light in the room authoritative as the world rushed back in through my eyes, pressed into me like commandment slabs, the room lit with the weight of certainty. As it was so shall it be as I sat on the edge of the mattress, holding my head in my hands. 

The orders came hours earlier, another place becomes a shelter, the shut in shores of this disorder all a ruckus in my skull. Nowhere to go, no one to be, nothing much different than any other day save the tides of consequence. The map is shaded in, slick streets and cloistered yards. An alarm goes off, I make a cup of coffee. I watch a car idle before the drive. The street lights painted in rain and astigmatism, streaks and stars and the words a blur. I go inside and lock the door. 

There’s not a lot to say about my prospects. There’s no phone call coming, no check in the mail. The cats commune in the garage and the dogs chased opportunity up a tree. We are old and slow and slip between the cracks. There’s nothing to smoke and no torches to carry. The rain falls, the night rises, water drips and pools on the back porch. The pines sulk and sway. No one says a word, and the world goes on, just one thing after another. I write one line after the other, the distance loose inside me. No one asks because no one wants to know.