Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
by Jo Lauer
I turn my head, neck stiff, travel weary, and look beyond the reflection in the Greyhound window of the haggard, sleep-deprived traveler, into the early morning sky.
Black clouds stretch like raven wings along the horizon, backlit by steel gray as the sun waits offstage to make her entrance.
At sunrise, the moist, peach California sky is the same vaginal color that lines the inner folds of a seashell found on a beach in Florida…the now mauve clouds, a similar hue as the Colorado mountains at sunset.
Midsummer hills imitate the variegated yellow, gold, and brown tassels topping fields of Iowa corn.
At daybreak, we pass a county fair. The double Ferris wheel stands in bas-relief like a giant infinity symbol.
Down the road, shimmering fog swaddles San Francisco. It is slow to lift and gives only a hint--a mere suggestion--that a city lies within.
Stippled waters of the Bay spread like thighs, laden with cellulite.
At the edge of Golden Gate Park, a body lies prone in the underbrush of eucalyptus and cypress, one less nameless, faceless, homeless mark of urban blight for the equestrian patrol to roust.
Gray pigeons on the rooftop of a cheap motel smirk down at the pink neon sign flashing Vacancy in a filmy window. Irony is not lost on them.
Jo Lauer of Santa Rosa, CA, is a psychotherapist who lives with her muse, a stuffed raven named Loudly.
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