A Word Changes


‘Endless, endless, endless.’  I whisper the two syllables over and over, seeking a cozy acquaintance, a sense of the old definition: hope, promise and another chance.  But the word has died, fluttered away to spectral memory.  Echoes remain.

The clock ticks, the yellow pan glows, and the wind pushes winter’s refuse.  Everything is as it was.  Today is yesterday, but it is not.  There is a counting of finality, a tolling of payment due and the veil lifts, oh, so slowly.  Endless lops its suffix.

I feel it, I sense it and I deny it.  Perhaps, I opine, it is personal; my blade of life spinning low.  But I do not feel the draft of a little fan. Somewhere, far away, the grease dries, a belt cracks and Endless runs down.

There is nothing to validate these thoughts.  Yet, neither my fear nor my denial will change the hollow clanking in need of urgent repair.


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