Impractical

[Photo: Big Frank Dickinson]

The House of Impracticality
by Big Frank Dickinson

In this house his pictures went unframed, but not his bathwater; although the matting was soggy. His apples tended towards soft all too soon, but his intentions kept their solidity day after day. Mornings were openings that he often let pass by, but he rarely ever missed a night - using them up dark to dawn. His carpets held their stains like Rorschach tests that he refused to take as consistently as he did unravel the shadows on his bedroom wall. The grass went to seed, the trees sprouted runners as he trimmed the soap suds in his kitchen sink. Knocks at the door went unanswered, but not so the groans in the basement, which he attended to as carefully as the spiders in his attic did their webs. The dust continued to settle and covered him as softly as he caressed his superstition that it was bad luck to chase someone with a broom. With piles of papers (bills and such) growing on each flat surface, he imagined peaks of impracticality still yet to reach.