By Aaron Suranofsky
Leaning back in my chair, from a sterile white word doc bleached of ideas. I breathe cramped bedroom, scrunching the empty page of my brain, and blow out lip-funneled scrap that strums a ceiling corner web, like a mouse's guitar strings lightly resettling their neutral. Stitched float staying strong weeks after I swept its seamstress– legs buttoned up, off my desk. Would she be satisfied that her embroidery still hangs? The intricate emblem she lived. I rack my chin on my knuckles, stretching my sequestered thoughts into the blue past my window blocked, by a mini bramble of bird's nest; weed-tied twig-tangle basket. Still, it sits on my windowsill, without a robin chick peeling its lungs for food from parents with beaks wrapped in worm. Only the bundle tagged with a Twix wrapper, crinkled by the air guiding those once-babies in their glide somewhere, dipping wind lanes. Do they remember their childhood home, and know it’s still here? Brought back to my laptop, I find these words pixeled to the page, pleasantly surprised. Except for the cricking of chipmunk claws grinding tunnels mazed of my house, and holes scrambled through my thoughts.