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A Peculiar Day
The biscuit is sitting on the plate waiting for a humongous date; the sardine is screaming in the can while she waits for the unfaithful man.
He is out dining and casting lot with a dollar fifty and his head wrapped up in a frock with beads in sheet and two dozen shilling wrapped around his feet.
I cannot remember the last time I saw such a fleet, hundreds of cars lined up one behind the other driving down the street and curious onlookers meandering around the corner leaning on the big boat that sits proudly in the middle of the street, with heat hunkering down at a hundred degree Fahrenheit.
The crowd began to swell and the people began to inhale a peculiar smell; the procession moves slowly through the street and I could feel my heartbeat drumming from a distance.
There was no sign of mourning yet the mood was somber, there was no sign of celebration yet the faces were restrained; there was no sign of happiness yet the emotions were subdued and so the minstrel took over from the stony heart beat and people began to scream and shout in the middle of the street and the procession drag along.
And somewhere in the dark hallway of parliament I can hear shouting and chatter, men and women in sharp attire crowd the rotunda with swollen faces and blistered lips. On the other side men without portfolio linger between the columns looking for votes that they will never have while the bid for speakership comes to a standstill and the man in the middle keep going around in circle and fail to the saddle horse.
The rowdy crowd watches with curiosity and trembling lips dripping with profound words cut through the heart ripping up the defiant men standing in the corner. They stood there all day wringing their hands and breaking their fingers and at the last minute a speaker could not be found and destiny had them bound. At last the casket reached the middle of the town and all the people gather around and Pallbearer hoist the casket and walked slowly and place it in the rotunda and so his ambition was backed up into a corner.
Copyright ©
Christine Phillips
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