The Permanence of Temporary

Craft. A decor design, a handbag, a greeting card, a garden.

Boredom permeates like humidity, saturating and diminishing joy.

Over it, like a bridge over troubled fire, flippant, fickle, dead salmon.

The puddled streets of a monsoon month still being threatened with hurricane season, shines under the dim lamplights and mourns for the victim moon who frowns upon shining any further reflection.

The alley way is clear of the homeless tonight while I walk in my five and dime shoes to go get a coke and a pack of smokes. But when I spot someone else walking there, I ready my bag like a weapon.

I listen to the howling of Chris Isaak's Wicked Game waiting patiently for the final line: Nobody Loves No one. And I smile satisfied, recounting the countless times I was ignored and disrespected.

Goodnight Moon. Farewell Giving Tree. Goodbye Crafts.

The permanence of temporary is just as reliable as my will to mock and prove wrong, when a label such as "not persistent" is slapped unto me.

I'm more persistent than you'll ever know.