The Wooden White Skeleton

Today it faces me. Today it's ridged ribs, chalk white frame, bulbous skull, today the skeleton faces me. Usually it peers outward, out the window towards busy Stark St. and I can only catch its eye in the reflection of the glass. Today it's as though it signals to me, one arm frozen in upright salute or condemnation. I think the former. But now that I've noticed I can't ignore it.

The coffee sits in my throat...

I have these two couches.

One is a cool faux leather with a big back and a decent love-seat with plush armrests. Earlier today I sat and watched a man across the street drill into a 4 x 4, constructing.

My other couch dominates my room. At one time it was L-shaped. I know because it has that slant-back end where it would turn the corner and connect with the other piece. Somehow, even though it doesn't have it's missing piece, I still have all of its pillows. So many that they are stacked double high, creeping up my wall like a tan, billowy fungus.

As I sat on my couches today I felt alone. So much room to sit.

I feel like de/construction surrounds me...

There's a steamroller in the parking lot of my apartment complex. The coffee shop is roasting with a general shaking and tumble of din. Even Halfway House across the street blasted engine noise throughout the neighborhood with their gas lawn mower from some by-gone era. Is it my ears that are sensitive today or something deeper inside me?