Breakfast at Fiction Inn
The Innkeeper is shaking a white plate with a golden rim,
"This is real gold dammit, that's metal you dimwit,
never put metal in the microwave." The help is only a minor character,
I can't see his face, but his scuffing gait sorrows the floorboards
as I wait for eggs and bacon in the first chapter.
The window sets a general view of mountain, green and sky.
I've never been much for description which is why
I write more poetry than novels. I am surrounded by chapter two's chunky
knotted pine and crafted replications of the view. Even before I lift my fork,
it's clear the narrative is going to leave me hungry.
A small brown boy and brown dog barrel down the stairs and stop
to smell my feet…so…nature is embodied in this narrative. "What
is your name?" "My dog is chocolate and so am I," he grins and exits.
Humor? Hook? Why is the story line racing offstage at Fiction Inn?
The door jingles its leitmotif and a bearded man enters
after his Leica. The innkeeper asks, wiping his hands, if he can assist.
"I used to come here as a boy and I have surely missed
your grandmother's flapjacks." His lens sniffs the scene. Sorry—
don't shoot my way. Should I have ordered pancakes instead of scrambled?
If I'm the main character, why can't I get fed? Maybe the story
is off the leash and chasing a goose. Will I be captured
by the photographer as he snaps up time capsule
walls and sweating proprietor? Who cares? I'm the author. My coffee is weak
but the perfect eggs are anointed with paprika when they arrive, still hot.
My host tells me the mist is rising from valley to peak,
and the trails are open. He is clearly the main character, he pours
more coffee, "9-11 is killing my trade, Europeans don't come here anymore;
global warming is dulling the fall leaves with too much rain, I do what I can,
my mother wants me to sell out, sell out, but I'm a stubborn man."
I was wrong, this isn't a novel, it's a country western song.
Warm Blue, Steam Tent, a Thousand Moons
between chalk-dry air
fluted blue lung
from a silver wire,
into a drain
the 4th wall
is roaring approval.
rises in the window
through night-dyed plastic—
cling to tile.
In every drop, a moon,
rinse, breathe, dance—
moons that melt
into a cool black towel.