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Chiaroscuro

(A Dream)

By Felecia BurgettPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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there's an orange sunset seeping into the horizon. a horizon you see every day. lined with sycamores, with weeping willows, with sturdy oaks and fraying shrubs. squirrels scold. goldfinches trill. a snake flits past your feet. it's black, sides striped highway yellow, eyes wide and puppy-like. too fast to see in any detail: a blur of lines. a flock of raucous white-specked starlings has taken roost in the oak that hangs over your roof, and show no signs of moving on.

Everything here is green

lemon-clean floors and

neatly folded shutters

the couch is crisp and

doesn't sag or turn at the corners

when autumn comes

you spend your evenings

on the simple wooden porch swing

made for comfort, not show

sipping top shelf rum

mixed with coca cola

and clear, round ice,

and your dog hardly sheds

and there are strays

(oddly kempt)

that you feed blue buffalo

out of scrubbed metal bowls

it's full night now. stars glow irregular and sharp. the moon is at a quarter, a half-open eye glaring at you. through the windows. across the hardwood floors. deep into the clean white carpet. the world looks grey, even with your porch light, fixed with a sun-yellow bulb.a bulbs you remember buying just for that sconce. the one ragged stray is at your door now, downstairs. scratching and braying. its back arches too high. its skin is sickly gray, almost silver in the starlight. it holds its forepaw twisted, crooked, an odd angle. it must have mange for how its locks scab and clump and fall all over the whitewashed wood.

Thermostat at 72 exactly,

dressed in soft clean and

stainless bathrobe

making an Americano

ignore the scratching

insistent at your back door

leftover from last night's chaos

nails determined to flake your

perfect white paint

you don't worry

about the way the far-off boughs

slouch and loom over

a well-trimmed rich green lawn

lined with pansies

replanted every season

don't think about winter. snow clawing its way to your crisp, hot hearth. ready to engulf the smolder. the aching tug at your chest that is not swallowed by cigar smoke. sunset is far off. you lay, prostrate, polite--a queen size bed, sensible, cozy. eyes flick open. stare at the window. the cat's downstairs again. a creak at the door. a rustle, swoosh of fabric. something gray, tall, sagging, leaning sideways, fingers long like tendril branches. growing. nearly to the headboard now.

It's a good life you have here

your socks are clean

your meals are made

your clothes are new and

whole

you say, I Don't Work

I Love My Job

It's Like A Hobby To Me

a vocation,

a career

yet the Tall Man comes

whenever the sun's light recedes

and breathes over your bed--

he reeks of dried marigold heads

of crushed grass

of snake musk

of horse dung

of fertile earth

and everything wild,

unkempt, unclean

nature poetry
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About the Creator

Felecia Burgett

Novice writer, amateur novelist, poet, article writer, dabble, and animal lover.

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