Dark-Thirty
The city's dome of artificial light
ghosts a crosshatch of contrails
under the dimmed stars. The throb
of a Dodge Ram Hemi with after
market pipes dopplers past. No need
to see- the sound declares the facts.
The smell of garlic, soy, and onions
exhausted from Skillman Wok
perfumes December air. You shudder
with the chill and crush the filtered
Marlboro Black against the bottom
of the brown, bakelite ashtray
and retreat to gas-fired warmth
inside a sagging, taxed and mortgaged,
wood-framed, suburban house.
ghosts a crosshatch of contrails
under the dimmed stars. The throb
of a Dodge Ram Hemi with after
market pipes dopplers past. No need
to see- the sound declares the facts.
The smell of garlic, soy, and onions
exhausted from Skillman Wok
perfumes December air. You shudder
with the chill and crush the filtered
Marlboro Black against the bottom
of the brown, bakelite ashtray
and retreat to gas-fired warmth
inside a sagging, taxed and mortgaged,
wood-framed, suburban house.
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Author's Note
Angst among the rooftops
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
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superb stuff
Thank you, Neil.
Wonderfully captured, Gary.
Thank you, Kitty.
Another wow piece, Gary. Love how you orchestrate all those apt sense images: the traditional 5 plus a dose of the kinetic. Can for sure hear those ". . . Dodge Ram Hemi with after/market pipes dopplers past."
You've got me shivering now. I've lived in that damned house, too. But those wok aromas are worth stepping outdoors for. (and it's nearly lunch time!)
Thank you,Matt
The truth is: 'the sound declares the facts.'
It's all a 'shudder.'*
Thank you, Tim.
*
Thank you, Sam.