Eight Fifty Six
For all this morning it’s been 8:56, so sayeth the clock that hangs above the coffee grinder. The timelessness mires my feet, my legs, my brain in a swamp of pudding, a pit of tar. One after the other I succumb: Claritin for allergies, Sudafed for stuffiness, Valium for neck crick, marijuana resin -- twice-smoked dope scraped from my brass pipe -- for ennui. A long shower to release my ills.
The baby is finally asleep in his crib. My neck begins to relax, relax, relax.
Maybe when I get out of the shower it will finally be 8:57. But I’m not counting on it.
Lynn B. Johnson is a founding member of the Northampton (MA) Playwright’s Lab, and teaches Writing for the Media and Digital Photography at Bay Path College.