Mums

-But I’m leaving; can't I just leave? Something: yes. Always something. Unfurling my jacket, looking back into the kitchen: watching the two lugubrious specimens pecking away at their meals; did I forget anything? The kettle on stove whistling. My Mother lumbers over, her puttering locomotion that of a somnambulant old wretch. Turns it off and into the cracked violet teapot it goes. What is that chitterlings? Can't see. My noctivagant lifestyle taking its toll: my mind a shadow, nebulous and...
    -You didn't have breakfast.
    -And?
    -You need to eat; breakfast is important.
    -No time.
    -Listen to her; a commanding monotone: my gonif Father. Listen to your mother.
    -Well if you...
    -Can't gotta go...
    -But...
    Always so pointless arguing: might as well leave. Shoes slip on: right, left: time to go: yep. I hear from the door the lasts gasps of their conversation. An old acquaintance: dead. Dropping likes flies they are. Draping my jacket over my shoulders, I walk out the door: leaving their squalid faces and antediluvian clothes behind. Rear door. Almost their time too. Dressed cap-a-pie in black.
    The Sun upon the Sky is still rising. The dewy air filling my nostrils. Fresh mowed lawn. Scat. Slowly, slowly: splayed blood orange reaching across the sky, speckled with white and blue.  The ditches encroach on the sidewalk: weeds sprouting up hither and thither, trees jutting out from lawns, the cement flyblown: cracked, grass growing... Maybe Burdock? Not sure.
    A man with bedraggled mustache and cigarette passes by. Flat cap drooped upon his balding scalp. His eyes all squinting: looking at me. A cloud of smoke right into my opal eyes: blinding: a miasmic stench and I cough. Hands clutching my chest. A violent cascade. Walk past and it will be over.
    Walking by houses and lawns, examining gardens, everyday. Yes. The cars passing. The Hydrangeas are beatific: neon blue beaming in the morning light. Squirrels scattering upon grass. Off to see my Chryselephantine. Or is that Siren? Yes, yes. Busstop in view yonder. Hyacinths and Lilies. Alfalfa and Bergamot. Gardens filled with vegetables. All colors of the rainbow. Tomatoes, potatoes, zucchini, cauliflower, cucumber, jack-by-the-hedge... Most peaceful part of the day. Off to the hustle and bustle. Off to the...
    -Hey, J from across the road yelling. Wishing distances aeonic wouldn't be enough.
    -Hey: obligatory as usual. Sardonic. Him and his polychromatic jacket. Bright and effervescent: look anywhere else. Hurry up. Won't work: already saw me. So looking both ways, waiting for the cars to whoosh by, he finds an opening. Crosses: jaunting: all flabby and outofbreath.
    -Just got up; stating the obvious: his hair dishevelled, beard jutting out haphazardly, clothes wrinkled, breath a fetor of decay. Always trying to get on my good side. Propitiate b*****d. And I have to work with this...
    -Ya, responding with as much muster as possible, letting the words settle as we continue on down. Almost there: yes, yes.
    -How was your weekend? Got wrecked eh? His smile beaming and I'm sick inside. Little yellow giblets glaring at Me from that wretched mouth. He looks at Me and laughs.
    -Oh ya. Big time. Capitulating: less talking. But to no avail. He continues on about the bars and the drinking. Can't be bothered. So nodding every so often I take in the scenery.
    Coming up on Mr. K's house. His garden always immaculate. His lawn perfectly manicured. The little fountain in the center trickling down: peaceful. Gnomes and statuesque squirrels.
    Nod.
    Nod.
    Colors pellucid: filling the garden: always, always. What I imagine Mr. Gatsby's garden would be. Just read it for the umpteenth time. I slow my stride: capturing a picture: for my daily reverie. Clocks ticking. Work: oh yes. The gardens, flowers, birds: pleasant to think of during the humdrum of monotonous days.
    Nod.
    Nod.
    The busstop upbye. Usually dreading this moment: can't wait to shed this serpentine scoundrel. I would of liked to seen his library. His big parties seen aglow from miles away. The roaring twenties. The chatter of a lass and laddie from across the street can be heard. Kicking ball around the lawn. Remember the one time I played catch with my father. Got hit in the head. Cried for an hour: haven't touched a baseball since. Funny if you think about it. The lass is crying now: shrieking. Don't know which is worse.
    Nod.
    Nod.
    -So she got up off her knees and left! Left! Can you imagine? Laughing and slapping my back gayly. The animus in the air percolating. A dog barking incessantly: off somewhere: owner and pet: owner and pet. I can only smile and nod.
    -Sounds great.
    Finally, we approach the bus stop, mixing with the sordid lot: I can finally lose him in the crowd. The noise bubbling over more than usual. The air redolent with melancholy. Woebegone. Yes, yes. Sad: sad: sad. I would always cry at the end. For how can nobody show up at his funeral? And after everything? Only Nick left too-enough of that: let the narration go on you pedantic a*s. Anyways, I start puttering around the outskirts of the hobbledehoy crowd catching snippets of conversation, off to the f*g end of the crowd: watching...
    -She was crossing the street...
    -Ain’t watchin where sh go? Brown fumbling his words. Said more: can't decrypt. His curly brown hair and suboval eyes: distracting: oafish. Who?
    -Ya of course she looked you a*s. The driver wasn't watching where he was going. Just sped on through; kept going. Blonde-the gossiping presence of work and busstop. Again: who? Peeking: flipping through the physiognomy of the crowd: where is my Chryselephantine? Everyone else here: J, Brown, Blonde, Red, Blue, Shitrock, E... I hadn't noticed the houses: people poking their faces out of doors, out of windows... Is it going to be like this all day? The beach would be better too...
    -Who are we talking about? Surprised countenance on repined faces looking up at me: he speaks: rare, but yes, yes I do.
    -The girl with those pink headphones. She got hit by a car.
    -The Blonde girl? With the green streaks in her hair? My voice rushing out the words before I realize I had spoken: phantasmagoric.
    Later I would remember seeing it sooner, but it wasn't until now that I noticed: the red painting the road. Redrum, redrum: echoing in my mind. Not funny though. No tehe. No ballyhoo. Splotched upon the road. Must of been like good old Myrtle Wilson. Tires squealing: dotted with red. It sits: pouting. No wags. Please, no wags. We looked: some irked, some mildly amused, some giddy with gossip. Amuse bouche: before work: our destructive urge pacified for now. The leaming light diminished: as if detecting our mood. A wem on the street: a week gone by, no one will notice: not a betting man though.
    No more sandystraw hair glittering in the sunlight.
    Her lips muttering tunes unheard.
    Quirks and peccadilloes.
    Painted fingertips.
    A lily on her ankle.
    Pointed nose.
    Cerulean eyes.
    Nevermore...
    -She alright?
    -Doesn't look good. Ambulance took her; it was a big hubbub. The police were talking to...
    -What hospital did they take her too? Anyone know? My lack of social etiquette startling no one: they all talk over one another. Like They only exist.
    -Not sure...
    -Ya wasn't paying attention. Thank you: observant as always.
    -Oh well...
    -Anyone switch shifts this Thursday?
    -I can.
    -Sweat ill switch it on the board. Thanks.
    -Hey, where's...
    -Heard he had the clap...
    -No I heard he got caught having sex with his cousin...
    Chitterchatter continues crazily. The noise reaching a crescendo as the bus approaches. The lawns and houses are all that remain. The doors and windows closed: the occupants returning to former activities. In the interim their breakfasts have gone cold. Their papers unread. A murmuration of televisions gone unheard. The commingling done: until the next upheaval.
    The bus approaches and lackadaisically I slip to the back of the crowd. I can only wonder: what if I had spoken to her? A word a laugh her smile a name... Now unknown and forever so. Didn't even know where she lived. Or where she was going each day. Not sure if it matters.
    I walked back the way I came. This time I passed my house though. That scene is too much right now. I see them in the window: still in the same position. Still eating. Mouths forming words, but once in a while; with nothing to say. The chrysanthemums are vibrant in the sunlight. My Mom calls them Mums. Not a gardener her. Mother was. Their heads all sorts of colors. Ray florets: white, red, yellow... Ribbed achene just visible if you looked closely... Flourishing...
    I walked: passed houses and shoppes.
    Looking for:
    A word.
    A  laugh.
    Her smile.
    A name.

Reviews

[Pryde Foltz]

You marry prose and poetry very very well. I'm a fan of the juxtaposition of romantic nature with realist naturalism. If I were to categorize this I would call poetic poetry and for this reason I might suggest you break each segment into a chapter/volume. It seems to do that quite naturally already.