Untitled #2

By Edie Kouri

it starts in the morning around six or six-thirty when he rolls out of bed awakened from his not so sweet slumber he takes that morning piss that echoes through the house, hocks a luigi or two in the bathroom sink and ambles to the kitchen to start the ever so necessary pot of coffee. around this time the rest of us find our way out of our dreams to start our own routines. he, of course, gets he first morning's shower but he never takes all the hot water. the cigar he didn't finish the night before is lit and puffed on before he is even fully dressed. sometimes he bellows along with the oldies station playing as loud as his ancient radio will allow. sometimes he hollers with red-faced anger at the disorder of the rest of us. we consider the morning incomplete if we don't have a concert and a beating he almost never cats breakfast, caffeine and nicotine are his morning meal as if a cigar and three or four cups of coffee is plenty of nutrition. "wallet, comb, keys---wallet, comb, keys" he obsesses a dozen times as the morning blossoms pretty soon he'll give the signal "head 'cm up and move 'em out, let's go we're running late" we're always running late. then we go our separate ways. I wish I could see he rest of his day maybe then I'd understand why he comes home in a drunken rage, downs a few adding to the dozen he had as the day progressed, then passes out on the couch, tired and sloshed, only to get up he next day and do it all over again.