Georgie Bergeron

I live with my husband, Bob, near Onyx.
We are active in the Hiking Club
and participate in some of the local music groups as well as in SongMakers.
A voracious reader and amateur writer for most of my life,
I have been a member of Poets and Writers for five years.
I write poetry and short stories and have also completed a romance-horror novel,
“The Garlock Vampire.”
My poem, “Today,” appeared in the 2002 edition of the Cerro Coso publication, “Metamorphoses.”

TODAY

And now my robe knocks clutter from table tops and shelves,
sweeps cutlery from the counter.
And now Hank Williams wails his woes of lonesomeness and
cold, cold hearts. Jimmie the brakeman whines his
complaints of trifling women and too much drinking.
The van rests on ruined tire remnants, a decrepit catamaran on
an ancient trailer connected for towing. Going nowhere.
And now the laundry reflects painful light as it flops and
thrashes in the wind. The air reeks of creosote and
horse dung.
The neighbor's dog, its coat like some thing found in the
bottom of the Goodwill box, assaults my ears with
harshness.
And now dust balls glare at me from corners. Unopened mail
lies in heaps like rubble. The linoleum feels gritty
under my feet.
And now I smell chicken roasting in the oven, sizzling fat, the
odor of onions.
And now I think I'll eat.

By Georgie Bergeron

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