Psst. Hey you.
Danielle Brown
It's been a rough few months. Lying tight on the side wall. Pretty cold. Not as cold as last winter, so I guess I shouldn't complain. But I'm as stiff as a board and come to think of it, really, really bored.
I'm watching the paint dry in those old cans, with the dust and the rust. Not much color on any given day. A perpetual gray with the floors of dirt and the film of loss held under a pretense of storage but let's face it, long since forgot.
Bikes in hibernation, no bouncing kid to their seat. A stray ball or seven, the yellow fuzz worn to the hue of the sun without heat. Slack fishing lines never pulled taut except in a misstep to retrieve the last beer from sometime last year.
Musty blankets to sheet the innumerable paint jobs planned. Tools a'plenty, like sentimental golf shoes, saved for that one day. There is nothing to do, but remember the waves.
I've got my old friend, Paddle, by my side. Not much of a companion but he'll make do until we ride.
And you give me an occasional glance as you pass on through. The ruckus of that cranked chain for the door marks the coming and going. And the coming and going. And the coming and the going
until one fine day
there is a pause.
Hey! Are the trees full of leaves? Is the water warm enough for toes? So, are we ready now? Put me in coach, I'm so ready to go.