Kingdom Come sits on the mantle as the last remnant of my Uncle's glory days and as he turns to the kitchen and begins to tell his young wife and dad about the water heater he installed all by himself, didn't even need the set of wrenches we have him last Christmas, I grab it and send a dust storm like tiny flies up through the pillar of light coming in from the bay window.
Kingdom Come is a bat, three-fourths the regulation baseball size, nearly twice as wide and is covered nearly all over with amber-like sealing wax for decks or counter tops. It gives a solid inch all around, and the milky whiteness hides faces of metal coins that add weight and stopping power.
I tighten my hand around its base and can smell its chemical scent, like neutral bath salts, and in one motion I pivot on my left heel and glide it down into the depths of my knapsack. The instant my hand tugs up on the big blue zipper my eyes shoot to the doorway to the kitchen where I expect to see the slumped height of my father, or the stick thin frame of my Uncle, staring, angry. But its just ghosts, and I can his wife's laughing shadow agains the canary yellow wall at the far side of the kitchen.
And here's another haiku
Jackie Chan lives his life
He wants no trouble from you
But justice calls him
No comments:
Post a Comment