The monkey alarm bangs its cymbals every morning at 6:30

for two and a half minutes straight. I walk to work

through a field of white picket fences and bounce my finger

along the planks collecting splinters, dripping

a vibrant red. A trail of technicolor behind me.


At work, the love letters and water bills mosey

from my hand to the P.O. boxes. I sell stamps,

bounce my finger along the little hills of their edges,

edging up to the cut. A trail of time behind me.


Lunch break is in black and white.

The waitress at the diner makes the coffee

stronger every afternoon. I pay for my lunch

in taste buds. The loop of static from the jukebox

cues the end of my break.


To kill time, I write and flip through photo albums.

Pictures and newspaper clippings and funeral programs.

Loose diary entries framed by jagged cuts and rips,

film reel chunks, headshots, scraps of scripts float

like leaves on to a cutting room floor.

My darlings are not dead, they are deleted scenes.