TITO

Tito wore a neon orange whistle against jet black - the kind lifeguards sport at the local swimming pool. He blew it hard when the monsters came. Pale from lack of sun and human contact, a body betrayed by moans so deep it made one wonder if it was going to be okay. With no choice, he ventured into the haze. The list was simple: cereal, pasta, coke, milk, chips. Squinting against the harsh light of day, he bolted down the street, wild with indecision. The bell rang as the door clicked shut at the corner store, three short blocks away.

Too much choice, too many colours, on the crunchy ladened shelves. Do you have any idea how many cereals exist? One box had multicolours and claimed to be lucky. Good, Tito could use a little luck. In the milk aisle the reflection let out a deep growl. The container dropped splattering white blood. Whistle blowing, clutching lucky, heart racing Tito did not pay. Safe at home he gulped down the bright charms with water, dancing in a frenetic twist, SMACK. A sudden growl hit the window hard. All the luck came right back up onto the hardwood floor. Tito blew on the neon orange noose, backed against the door.

Elusive sleep
leads to lucid dreams 
of sci-fi cities 
not yet seen.

Little gratitudes 
grace my path 
as I spot the red fox 
by the mailbox pass.

She trots between worlds, 
drifting behind a grassy veil -
wild wisdom 
bouncing off 
her bushy tail.

Transform and adapt, 
she whispers 
through the maze. 

I smile 
without hesitation, 
meeting 
her gaze.