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Quotidian Adventure
Serial Part Ten
by Earl Coleman
Were in a Grade B
thriller in this misty dusk, a snap-brim hat upon
a table lighted by a naked bulb; outside a fine
rain that had lasted through the day, and just
now quit, a bus stop with a haloed sulfur light
that uglifies the nitrous bluish-black advancing
night, a soldiers jackboots pounding down
our narrow street of dreams through tunnels to
our nightmare cul de sacs, where we shall follow
them to oily waste that laps against the banks,
cut-laced together in our inner sight, with that
recurrent snap-brim hat now following behind,
and suddenly a trenchcoat and a broad-beamed back,
and we are hunted and were spies, and in
split seconds we are prey, and threading through
a maze, a sense of something huge at stake, perhaps
ourselves, our safety, some defining circumstance
thats out of whack, thats set to rock
our world, and we are powerless to alter anything,
although we are protagonists and denouement is
ours, and yet the tolling bell from somewhere
right, the hat, remind us that this mystery has
life beyond our powers to deny and theres
no force at hand that can deliver us, until a
strobe of light offstage dissolves the scene and
forces us to open eyes up to the morning sun,
which now propels us to one more yet-unexplored
new day and we are off to tunnels, sloughing off
the dream, along with throngs of densely packed
humanity in elevators, trains, the luncheonette,
yet each surprisingly alone, indwelling, mute,
unique and powerless, and theres this hat
again, although some nameless persons wearing
it, and we are prey once more, inside our cubicles
this time, with circumstances out of whack, with
something huge at stake, perhaps ourselves.
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