It was one of those mornings the earth seemed not to have had any rest at all, her face dour and unrefreshed, no particular place-- subway, park-- expressed sufficient interest in present circumstances though flowers popped up and tokens dropped down, deep in the turnstiles. And from the dovecots nothing was released or killed. No one seemed to mind, though everyone noticed. If the alphabet died-- even the o collapsing, the l a lance in its groin-- what of it? The question 'krispies, flakes or loops?'-- always an indicator of attention-- took a turn for the worse, though crumpets could still be successfully toasted: machines worked, the idiom death warmed over was in use. By noon, postage stamps were half their width and worth but no one stopped licking. Neutrinos passed, undetected. Corpulent clouds formed in the sky. Tea was served at four. When the wind blew off a shingle or two, like hairs, and the scalp of the house began to howl, not a roofer nailed it down. That was that. When the moon came out and glowed like a night light loose in its socket, no one was captious, cautious or wise, though the toes of a few behaved strangely in bed-- they peeped out of the blankets like insects' antennae, then turned into periscopes scouting to see if the daze that was morning had actually managed to doze.
From Post Meridian, published by Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2000. Copyright © 2000 by Mary Ruefle. All rights reserved. Used with permission.