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Jigsaw

What is this, my friend?

You, the one who never makes plans,
have cobbled this one together
from the remnants of the morning.

You really shouldn’t be left alone,
you know,
but it was with relish that you contemplated an afternoon of dead rest,
owing to their shopping and a movie plans.

Out the doorway they shuffled,
with rearward glances and catcalls of false regret
that you were under the weather.
You smiled slyly and pushed the door up.
There.

One cup of hot freshly ground coffee.
One lazyboy that the cats have owned for a long time.
Fresh batteries in the remote,
good stories on Netflix.
None of those shoot ’em up, blow ’em up, car-chasing, teeny bopper,
obscene stand-up comic 
kinds of pictures.

Said cats are sorely pissed that you have had the temerity to take their chair,
but they settle in, seeming to recognize that this is your day.
Plus, you have cheezies, and that seals the deal.

Now for something calming and easy to digest.
A romantic comedy?
Nah, too contrived.
A documentary on whales?
Seen one, seen ’em all.
Horror?
It took you ten years to get over the last one you saw.

This is cynicism 101, you know, right?

The two fuzz buddies settle down,
and take turns licking your orange fingers.

A half hour later,
while you’re still scrolling through movies as if you were playing the slots,
something heavy wells up from within you.
No reason.  No reason.
The puzzle of your life, so carefully fitted,
has lost its connectedness.
Higgledy-piggledy, topsy-turvy.
There’s that old familiar throat tightness.
Those ball bearings you’ve gotta swallow,
and you do it.
Even here, you do it.
Even here, alone, you struggle for control,
but pools of your tears darken your shirt of pastel blue.

The felines somehow sense this sadness.
They creep up your shoulders and nuzzle your ears with their purrs.
And you can touch them.
You can hold them.
You can cry it out until they are wet and want to lick the salt.
Never would you let anyone see this.

By eight o’clock you are composed,
redness and puffiness gone.

You are hoping they hurry home.

Lee Dunn View All

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

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