5 Pounds To Trigger
The jinx of dependency billows this wayward soul, squeezing every ounce of pressure out of this dead-end life. Pitch-black-moon yielding daybreak, the silence ushering in the day putting forward greys. First to trigger, that dam alarm clock—ringing religiously without future tense I was, I am, I will always be—my battle cries, my scars, my knotty gnarled hand cramped tightly triggering this dead-end job. Just another roustabout walking on eggshells with my head down—not easily yoked-under this loudmouth boss—bruised, broken and beaten two powder kegs removed from trigger number three. The long dirge home offers no sigh of relief. Sunrise, he was a brilliant man beloved by all. Sunset, he bequeaths his art collection to the town. Whitewashed tombs, I know them all.
Hastening with every step I can feel mortality breathing down my neck. Am I spinning a fable just to amuse [or is it a dark-sinister eulogy]? Looking beyond the shrubs passed the oak trees homeward bound…visualizing myself rocking on the front porch. The vestibule is a transitional bluish grey, a loveless marriage no solace bliss. Fault-finding wife leans into me something fierce—unbeknownst to her lodged deep in her throat is another trigger— she cries out, “a lesser man would be more empathetic…we live on a dead-end road inside a graveyard.” Gingerly I make my way upstairs, rehearsing the formal manner line upon line, precept upon precept, a tattered revelation with a new twist. At the top of the stairs when I pass their rooms, voices from the other side say they love me, and call me home.
