She scolded the water right out of the pot. Wanted a warm cup of rooibos with her morning read so bad, she blazed the burner on high and ran straight upstairs where she got back On the Road with Jack Kerouac.
Pages pushed on, and through Jack’s eyes she swirled into the dizzying party scenes of Denver one Spring evening in 1948. Whirled through shots of whiskey, kicked rocks and talked crazy poets talk with Allen Ginsburg and Neal Cassady when suddenly, a fire lit under her book reading behind. She rushed back down to the boiling she felt below.
On the stove, a back bottomed pot and an, “Oh shit.” She got elbows deep in silly feeling suds before she could begin again, and sip that first sip of luscious red lavender tea while reading on.
I guess that’s what happens when you live in two different worlds. Something, or someone, is bound to be forgotten.
“I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged and like the Prophet that has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only word I had was WOW.” ~Jack Kerouac
© 2012 Bernadette Ignacio