Omen

It should have been
like other mornings.
Even five-year-olds are set
in their ways and know
when something isn’t right.

And something wasn’t right.

A chill like black chrome
killed comfort in the routine
of breakfast then cartoons.
A pall occluded bright blue eyes, and
here was dread, an unkind promise—
a sickening portent of proximate danger.

This was an ordinary home yesterday.
Now, it was my Gethsemane.


Published at Wordlust : Paperfetish, May 20, 2005