Synaptic Plasticity at Three-thirty in the Afternoon
Synaptic Plasticity at
Three-thirty in the Afternoon
by Laura Summerville Reed
My doctor suggests, in so many words,
That I learn to live with a constant chill
in my bones or certainly die a slow and
painful death from seeking the warmth
I love so much. That torrid, hot energy that
only comes from sunlight laughing off my
skin, but the Devil Orb has already made
his trek more than halfway across the
sky today. No time for contemplating dire
reports of sure and pending death. I buckle
in for a dose of Holy Rollin’ Novocaine. With
A flick of the wrist I let the top back and drive
in the glorious sunshine. Music humming
through my spine, plugged in – Spark-
Synaptic plasticity - The acrid smell of
melted asphalt and the sweat that’s
already leaving salty satellites from my
belly to back, and back again. I’m startled
by a sweetness and look for the blushing
tree or grandmother’s flower bed, I catch
the din of distant voices, the architecture
of the clouds and kudzu vines that hold the
golden goose. Other things assault my senses;
a tangled mess of bloody fur that expected
deference on this road and found none.
My only clear destination, the uncountable
white dashes to my left
I will decide when the hum settles in.
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