Scrambled Eggs (Prose Poem)

16 Apr

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     The halogen bulb, above the sink, sings, The Song of The BeesBuzzzzzzzBuzzzzz. The page before me—empty. This bulb has so much to say. I listen. Buzzzzzzzzz. It is as unforgivable as a friend who takes but doesn’t give, as persistent as a child who wants dessert before dinner, as relentless as my father. My right temple burns. Buzzzzzz. My page—empty. My mind—an egg factory. I wait for an idea to hatch, as I listen to the light. BuzzzzBuzzzzzzz. The sound—it hurts. I rub my temple. My face is warm, my vision blurred. BUZZZZZZ. If I stay here, the light will make scrambled eggs. BUZZZZZZ. Just stop already. Just stop, just stop, just stop. BUZZZZZZZ. All right, that’s it: I don’t want scrambled eggs. Buzzzz. I stare at the bulb. Buzzzzzz. The thing that lights the room should not be heard. I approach it, roll it out of its bracket, and listen to the silence. My ears ring—no rest for you, my friends. I set the bulb back into place. BUZZZZZZZZZZZ. It’s mad now. I’ve seen a TV be smacked into submission. I try this method—Buzzzzz. I tug at the beaded chain that controls its energy. Off. On. Buzzzz. Off. On. BUZZZZZZ. Off. On. Buzzzzz. Off. On. Victory. I sit down and try not wake the bulb.BUZZZZZZZZZZZ.

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