Unfortunate Conflict of Interest
by Poema Escritor
The arrangement was simple. Easy to remember. Fairly quick to understand. It had congruence. And if it were a word too big, they lined up. Like printed handwritten letters from a grade schooler’s workbooks. Like books on a shelf. By number, by color, by the many words that mean one thing or mean two things to the author yet. Neat. Inspired. Requesting a sense of loyalty from an imposed order. Like a newly stocked grocery store. The devoted precision and elegance in parallel design was neither questioned or doubted. Observing it, she saw the curved corners with an umber colored coffee stain from a thumbprint or two. The coffee she infused with her hands. Diffusing the mode in which she could not swallow in a gulp or taken with cream or any such manner. She had to turn the dial down. Lay back. Brew under the sun until the skin that shrouds her unveils into a crisp feverish red. She needed to write a line or two. Or not at all for that matter. Or in any sort or unconventional or not at all. She had to fritter or not at all. Or meditate. Or pray. Or pay inattention to the collector of dues whose hands time had brittled.
Or not at all.