In the Last Hours of Mystery
Before the tumblers hit the lock and the door swings and a woman an a boy stumble in from the heat and mess of the outside.
In those moments.
What am I?
I figment of my own imagination.
A passing thought of something bigger.
A man, alone in an apartment.
Checking email.
Walking dogs.
Nursing a dying cat.
Looking for inner meaning in mindless television.
Jumping at a knock on the door.
Contemplating a glass of whiskey.
Contemplating my feet.
My hands.
The growing lines.
A mystery.
Every page that’s read, another is written.
Every word that’s said, less and less smitten.
It deepens.
All of it.
Fades into gray.
Consumed by clouds.
Gone.
The door closes again in the morning.
The house becomes empty.
The dog looks at me wanting to know what’s next.
If only she knew.
If only I did.
It deepens.
