By Ashley Ellen Evelyn Edmonson Goetz
If you only knew what’s inside of me now. I’ve turned the heat on. I pushed the yellow lever down. It’s fully open to Hot. Fan still mid-drift. Blowing Air. Brick still sits on the rug where I laid it. I took it weeks ago. From under the bridge. From over the water. From next to the skate park. From high ground to low. Carried with the waves of a Hurricane. A Tidal Wave. A Prim Rose. A Jade Tavern. Yet I pick it up. I examine it. I see that it is not the stone I plucked. That one rests outside the door with letters molded into it of Yesterday. This one kept the bees out. This one held the air. This one kept the books up. This one was here already. This one was already used. By Greats. This one is not Mine. This one belongs to the House. It was left by the Artists. The Prayers. The Moaners of Yesteryear. The Bygones. The Cyclone Energy. The Corrupted Trees. The Bloomers of the Night. They have taught Me. They have moved Me. They are to Thank. They are the Gaias. They are the Shiva’s. They are the Krishna’s. The Harry Carry’s. The Hanks. The Grandpa’s. The Grandma’s. The Wise. The Elders. The Youth of Age. The Beginners. They create Beginnings. They are Here. They are where I lie. Lay. Low down. To the ground. Splish splash I be takin’ a bath on the Four’o’clock Train to Tomorrow.