Monotony Not Worth Reading

Monotony Not Worth Reading

Every morning fifteen minutes late in the dark closet.

Can’t quite see; sips weak coffee; paces.

Arms crossed, uncrossed. Paces back to coffee,

Stares, sips.

—Looks at the clock in desperate sudden anguish:

five to near-lateness,

ten to ragingly humiliating lateness

—Pace back, this time with feeling. All quiet on the closet front,

Panic drips down bare back.

Wonders about the weather.

Forehead contracts in despair over the cold.

Two minutes now; panic, panic.

Leans into closet and antennae get stuck in hinges.

Pulls back hard and the cilia of the antennae are ground and squished.

Sweat gushes down face and pinchers.

Twists to see clock, clock blocked by door.

Scuttles to left and right.

Howls in pain and sucks mothballs.

Tears fall congealed, oozing over wool.

Time; time slips; sips coffee.

Thinks about hacking off antennae.

Wonders, steps back.

Considers the weather; considers a muumuu.

Sips coffee, howls in pain, antennae further lodged.

Time, time, panic, scuttle, howl, sip, panic.

By Ella

I am an undergraduate junior studying creative writing. I am interested in short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and professional writing.

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