A Fury Of Days Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

I laid back on the pillows
And tried to contemplate
Beyond the veils of time
The days passing
The fury of days

Among the dust particles
Dancing in the air
I saw a veil floating
And it blew aside.
Sharply focusing my eyes
I saw a man, a workman
In a plainly furnished room.

He ripped a page
From the wall calendar
It said March 24,1927.
The carpenter's hand was rough
And sunburnt.
Now the calendar read March 25.

Then I saw an alley
Young, strong carpenters
Hammering studs
Plumbers scurrying about
With heavy metal pipes
Fresh paint smells

Then, when the sun cooled off,
Dark bottles of beer.
They sat in the Florida evening
Swatting mosquitoes
And laughing with red faces
talking of the 'Cane of '26.

The veil closed suddenly
And in a moment
Opened again.

A hand of reddish brown
Turned the page of a desk calendar
It now read March 25,1987.
White stucco plastered the walls
Of a small, but neat room.

Then I saw the alley.
Workers again scurried about
Calling out 'Oye' and 'Maricon'
Paint smells of latex and resin
Lent a pungent flavor to this scene.
Humming and buzzing of power tools
Filled the now warm Florida air
Until, mercifully, the sun descended.

I saw them cool off with
bottles of Corona and El Presidente

Then the veil closed again.

When it opened, a thin
Manicured hand clicked
A button on his watch
The red lcd prompted 032606
This room was cool, I could tell
and the blinds were of a rough texture
perhaps a papyrus blend
Like in designer showrooms

Then he was in the alley
Holding a bottle of mineral water
But it no longer looked like an alley
There were brass lighting fixtures
Walls done in faux finishes
And the floor was granite.

This time I saw no workmen
Just one man with the lcd watch.

The veil closed softly
And became blurred
As my tears dropped freely
Mourning the alley,
No longer an alley
Mourning the fury
The fury of days.