ADARRO MINTON
IT’S JUST A DREAM
I have this recurring dream where I am confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life because the chair fell in love with me. Every morning when I wake up, it’s there by the side of my bed waiting, genuflecting, demanding I join with it just once more. Then it will leave me alone. But it lies, and the next day it is there again feigning compassion. While clandestinely leaving it’s accessories around the house. When I confront it, it threatens to leave, rolling to the door, leaving me and my lifeless legs on the floor. Only after I beg does it return, daring me to ever again rebuke it.
UNTITLED
It was dark before. Quiet. A white cat, a black patch on its left eye was fixed on a fish tank’s green bubbles. It came, through a lightning shower driving a rickety grey car. It banged on doors and scraped on windows, jolting me. Love. Casting passing black shade shadows. Flatulent, defensive, dragging bags filled with broken heart pieces, bounced checks, and bad credit. What was I to do?