A wife a wife a wife a wife and daughter born and grown into a wife and mother. Several generations later sitting in a deteriorating art couch on the second floor of our big shed that doesn’t meet current building codes for the most notorious earthquake state. Statements stated to prove a truth but run down and drip from the teared glass staring at my voice. Too bad I can’t speak. Paralyzed by the appetite-depressing accident scent guess I’m not eating or breathing tonight. Maybe you can change overnight, no, I doubt I can. At least I have four goodbyes to look forward to. For who knows the power of waiting and ignoring. Rest is essential for gaining muscle. Rest and eating a colorful diet, locally grown and remember that yellowblue makes green. I don’t think it’s possible to know what time does before it’s done and dusted crow eating rear mirror driver cross-country mover. Moving further away from the daughter, the end of generations.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1