Just a Story

Why do you cry mocking bird, why do you cry.
Where is your voice which all name you by?

The dream catcher hung on the window. Tinkle. Tinkle, against the window pane.
Swish swish, the cords twist and the feather brush the frost against the glassy surface or another thought.
The white sculpted ceiling walls are held by the brown woods standing tall, leaning against the door frame.
Frost. Frosted flaked ceiling, could I taste it; would it be cold? Would it go better with microwave milk, breakfast for dinner, for a midnight snack before I go to sleep, before I dream again? The Catcher watches winding and unwinding with the time, the alarm clock unticking unblinking, neon green in the blackest dark holding the moments, recording them, analyzing your moments. Did you waste it? A minute watching the dust fall up and create cobwebs. 20 minutes? Is it really 5:32, isn't that ironic, that time is held by math problems, held by wishes on 11:11, wait! is it time to go to bed? Or am I late for work?

Why doesn't the morning dove sing anymore
The dawn, did it forget to wake you up again?

And Phoebe started down at me from my from the desk, Its face hanging down, its tail swishing side to side, side to side. 5:54....5:55 I can't help but smile as she grins down at me.
                "Tsk tsk"  I snapped my fingers lazily and she pounced, landing on the side of my pillow with a fumpf. She kept her back to me tickling my face, my bunty nose. A lazy hand moved her to my chest and stroked her stomach, one extension at a time, bring my hand back again, resetting my bow to tedious classical music.
It time to get up. It's been time to get up from half an hour, and I knew that. The sun was already making my eyes tighten up and pushing my head sideways and away, towards the darkness of the shelves, back to the shadow realm.
And that's when I saw it sitting in the corner, the remnants of a dream. Her figure silhouetted in the nicks and lines of the bark. The morning was coming so I let it erase the rest of her shadows. It was only a wall, it was only a dream

And why does the-
            I shut off the radio. It usually doesn't play all night, but then again, when did I turn it on? I couldn't remember.

It was honey nut cheerios and mango orange juice, oh and the rest of last nights dinner, something to keep me till break. The paper had some interesting lines.......Long awaited break........Keeping the Memory.... Running away from, each now trapped by a red line of ink. I threw it onto the pile of papers by the door and walked down the stairs, by the small line of irises, and into the car. I tuned the radio,

Did you know the mocking bir-
                            and tuned it off. I no longer had to adjust the mirrors, and drove.

"How are you?"
"Fine"
"That's good"
"Suppose so. See you at the meeting?"
"Yep"

The day went by, as clouds do. You find some of them make funny shapes, some foreboding, some just there and you watch them go, watch them go by, covering the moon or the stars or the occasional plane. Nothing marked this day, so I went home and sat in the doorway with a glass of wine and a sandwich, yesterday is uneaten lunch, and watched the real sky, which was cloudless.
I watched the cars, and the people, and the odd bird which sat on the telephone pole and watched you back, like a cat, Phoebe would like that. And we would stare till the street lights when on, and the down began to collect on the side walk beneath the pole. The pillows would seem so inviting, and the glare of the screen seem like that classical music, interesting but unproductive, consuming but unrewarding if there is no audience, if the concert is just for you and the room, in which you are playing, listening to the buzz the hum, the thump of the dream catcher against the pain.

The window stays open, the door cracked, so in case I leave the cigarette on the stairs, the smoke could tiptoe in and sleep beside me, and leave in the morning just like my dreams.

And so the Mocking bird calls,
Can you tell, Can you hea-
                                          The End