Homebodies
Some days they bicker. Some days they make turkey sandwiches. A black trash can corkscrews through the air, level with a second-floor balcony. It’s one of those days.
I could be stacking tires. Instead they’re wrapping each other in silk lined with phosphorus.
One is on the plastic trombone, trampling the other’s plywood ukulele.
Look! More slurs. In vivid pink, defacing a jacaranda.
A huge confrontation involving nonfat cultured … what? They don’t always finish each other’s sentences. Yes, they do. No, they don’t.
Well, in the end it’s their business, when it’s all said, argued, reargued, said again and done.
Photo credit: Eric
You hit that conversational tone, especially toward the end of the piece. It literally goes to conversational by the time it’s done. That’s clever.