Author Archives: Lee Dunn

I’ve three fat cats

Used to be four

The skinny one passed

I have turned them into kitty crackheads

(Too liberal with the treats)

Now I see the error of my ways

How they manipulate me!

Especially the the fattest one

Cunningly, I think “we’ll skip a night for the kibbles”

I go to bed, close the door, soon drop off to sleep

There’s a knock

Wearily, I uncover, open the door

To darkness, no one there

I mutter “you miserable little bastard thing”

Back to bed, turn off light..

Another knock, more forceful.

Up I jump, in a tither

This time, glowing eyes light the hallway

Annoying meows beckon towards the kitchen

I resignedly follow.

Fluffy tails circle my feet

Looking like periscopes

Or shark fins closing in on their quarry.

I dole out three piles.

The ringleader refuses to eat

Until I add a few more.

I now have to get a second job

To support their habit.

Perhaps the paranormal believers are onto something.  Do we all have auras?  It’s an easy explanation for a thing that’s puzzled me for a time.  To you, it may not be a puzzle at all, or maybe not something you would think on.  Most likely, just a projection or an assumption on my part.  Call it naïveté, superstition, overthinking, or all of those.

Ah, but it could be (and I do feel it this way) a moment of true clarity.

In even something as simple as a shopping excursion, I pass by hundreds (if not, thousands) of people, and casually make eye contact with many.  Those who leave an impression, for good or ill, are retained in my mind for a time.  I consider myself neither hostile, nor overly kind.  Some who I meet have a welcoming nature, and will return a casual smile.  I like the little scenes that people inadvertently create.  A mother struggling with two kids, one in a stroller, and a full shopping cart, trying to get through the checkout.  A very old woman with a different kind of struggle, peering into her purse for money, while her groceries are sitting on the belt unbagged.  The cashier may or may not show patience, and I see if their eyes are kind or absent.

It seems to depend on the day, or maybe it is truly my own outlook, but the dark side of things is at times more prevalent.  When I come upon a person and lift my eyes to theirs,  what’s returned could be a look of challenge or unreasoning anger.  Or, they may swiftly look away, as if not wanting to be probed, perhaps because they’ve seen something within my own eyes that has disturbed them.  Lastly, they may seem to be shuttered, unreadable, aloof, with the aspect and the Zen of a fleeting animal.

The mother could be whacking the kid’s behind, or the father could be yelling at them.
The Yin and the Yang, but why the seismic shift from day to day?

There was a song, by the Payolas.  “The eyes of a Stranger”.
My friend once said to me, offhandedly, “You know, that’s you sometimes”.

Picture credit:  Deviant Art

A Balrog of Mordor
The sandworms of Dune
An H. G. Wells tripod
Dark side of the moon
(One at a time, please)
These things I would face
For the treasure I cherish
Your face, full of grace.

You were hired at the store where my wife works, and saw me bring her a cup of tea every day at lunch.  One day, you remarked, in front of others, Gee, I wish I had a boyfriend like that.  I just smiled, a little tongue-tied.  As the daily routine went on, I saw, or imagined, you sneaking a glance as I brought my clockwork cups, then looking away.  Later, they put you on as a cashier, and I sometimes wound up going through your line.  I didn’t attempt to start a conversation, other than saying Hi, but one day you said why are you looking at me that way?  I reddened a bit, and asked what you were talking about.  Nothing, never mind.  As I brought the tea each day, I began to get a little apprehensive, wondering what you would say next, and it wasn’t long before you were waving and saying things like Hi, Hubby, did you bring my tea? , so I started thinking up clever response lines, taking it lightly and enjoying the joking repartee.  After several of these exchanges,  I said “listen, what do you take in your coffee?  I’ll bring you one.” You looked embarrassed, as if I had called your bluff, but told me anyway.  Must have thought I was joking, because I let a week go by.  Then I brought one in and slipped it behind you at the cash desk, and kept walking.  When I left the store, I went by an alternate route, but you spotted me, held the cup aloft, and called out Hubby! You didn’t!
People looked.  I did this only the one time, because I thought it had embarrassed you, and I didn’t want to cause trouble.  Lots of snickers now, and amused glances, whenever I came in with the wife’s tea.  She knew that I had made a friend, and was a little uncomfortable about it,  but didn’t raise a fuss .  After all, anything more than clever clowning around would be most inappropriate, considering you are old enough to be my granddaughter.  But, a year later, actually last night, my wife and I were at a Christmas party that you happened to attend as well.  She nudged me and said “Your sweetie is here”.  I stood up, reddened again, and you gave me a big hug.  Hi, Hubby.

You, maybe with daddy issues.  Me, in a late-life crisis?  What could go wrong?

It’s cold and snowy this evening.  Hearing sirens, imagining ditched cars, I wipe my window and watch people out in the storm with their shovels and blowers.  I wonder why, thinking that if this keeps up, there will be another 6 inches by the morning.  Maybe they are hoping it will stop soon, or they are better weather watchers than am I.  Feeling very cozy, at least, I am glad to be safe and warm.

It’s going on two weeks since I’ve gone for my daily exercise walk, and more than that since I have picked up a musical instrument, two things that I’ve looked upon as helpful therapy.  Just low mood.  Medicated low mood.  Strangely enough, in yesterday’s doctor appointment, two of the first questions she asked me were “Are you still going for your walks?”  No.  “Have you played any music lately?”  No.  She is taking care of me very well, and is a by-the-book person, no bullshit.  If you don’t do what she tells you, there better be a reason.  She’ll listen, if it’s an honest one.

So, she was really the impetus for tonight’s sudden resolve to get out there and do it.  Put on the long johns, the parka, and the mitts.  Are you gonna take the long route, or the old man’s route?  With puffed up ego that I was able to get as far as my driveway, I said “Hell, it’s the long route, now that I’m out here”.  I finally reach the corner where I would normally turn off for the short walk, and say “Okay, you still have breath, you don’t have to pee, the mitts are warm, so let’s keep going.”  Two minutes more, and I slip on ice, feeling something a little out of place in my hip.  Walk slowly for a bit, seems okay.  Three quarters of the way now, I turn a corner, and there he is:  a large loose solitary dog, standing on the sidewalk, ears pricked, looking very muscular and alert.  I freeze, having been attacked last summer by a similar breed.  I have a tendency to be very Sméagol-Gollum like in dialogue with myself, and tonight, Gollum said “It has been put there as a warning, my precious.  You have gone too far and have thought yourself too great.  Turn around, foolish old man.”  Sméagol meekly acquiesced.

After I’m done with this, out comes the guitar.

Dad handed me a golf ball and his hunting knife.
Said to hold it firmly, cut quite carefully,
A little at a time, and I’d see something surprising.
As I cut, the tight and hard skin started separating.
Beneath it was enticement.
Brown bands bound with such tension
That, when cut, their explosive force
Pushed the skin apart more rapidly,
All the insides wanting out.
One more cut, and ah!
With the pling pling pling of the breaking bands,
Off came the hard white shell,
And I was showered with strips of brown rubber.
Still there was more, and I cut further,
Laughing as the lively bits spat all over.
At last, I saw a black grape sized ball beneath.
Was this the end of fascination, and what should I do
With this spongy thing?
Dad said “Keep cutting, unless you want to bounce it for awhile.”
Too curious for that, I chose the cutting.
Inside of the black grape was the final fluid,
The lifeblood.
Green syrup seeped.
Crestfallen.

In a different season, one Christmas, unasked for,
Was a present I was told to leave until last.
Dad had gotten it.  I knew by his wrapping.
He’d always use the same paper, no ribbons or bows.
He had thought to go the hobby shop and bring it home:
A miniature steam driven power plant.
You had to fill the boiler with water,
Then place tiny white blocks of fuel in the burner underneath.
Light with a match, wait until the steam started simmering,
Then tweak the big flywheel, and Magic!
A piston slowly started pushing, but, ah, it stopped.
Wait for more violent steam, and a whistle blew!
You tweaked the wheel once more, and it went and it went.
It was a moment between us, and I’m sure my young eyes
Must have brightened for him then.

More than five decades have gone.
Him along with them.

The tiny white fuel blocks had a name stamped upon them.
“ESBIT”
If you have never seen Citizen Kane, look up this old film.
Then you will understand that ESBIT was my Rosebud.