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.

©LSR 2010