Brett Hetherington

Banner photos: Cornelia Kraft

Prose Poem 28

[Photo: Pedro Duarte]

 

How to fill the hours?

The hours and minutes that cluster around demanding to be entered, insisting to be used or abused or taken downtown to be trod into the cracks in the pavement, only returning with intent to malinger, or linger, or finger the night.

The hours where only the stupid know true comfort. Fill them, these hours! Fill them with schemes and scenes, with reminisce over bottles of piss. With fading falling fancies when younger days found fun-filled ways of eating lollies, pushing trolleys, sniffing matches, taking snatches, dropping pants, watching ants, or friendly dogs, being barely a cog, in a shrunken world.

How to fill the hours?

The hours that will always get filled. With bad TV or clumsy fumblings or fumbly near-nothings, or silent wishes or a lover’s flicking kisses. These hours where life beats on your brain. Those hours that travel with the velocity of two episodes of Fawlty Towers.

And the hours spent waiting for the next hour, when life will really begin.

Fill them, these hours.