The smell of burnt rice
captures the memory
in the company of
Daddy Long Legs,
voices I try to drown
but have no more
enamel to grind on,
the sticky heat
not helping
the booming voices
after midnight
chattering over
combo movements
distracting me
momentarily
from the black spot
cataract
that has accompanied me
for years.
Old long legs
sits quietly
unnoticed
and waits to
dine perhaps
on the mosquito
that drank my wine
a few moments ago.
Dare I think green
leave off the cooling
enjoy the hum
of the icebox
imagining myself
tomorrow’s lunch
wrapped in wrap?
Fuck it.
The world will smile
at me sleeping soundly
under the Frigidaire
dreaming of a green tree.
© Antonio Beardall
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