The Heaven Columns Poem by Tara Teeling

Here is coffee, cream, sugar and my sunflower mug.
I stir it gently, tinkling as I go.
My hair is piled up high, unkempt,
like a fine stack of hay, secured by invisible pins.
'Tis my morning wake up.

I stretch to greet the pale sun
as its lemony goodness bleeds in slowly.
Like a bear emerging from a long winter,
I yawn lazily, rub my eyes and try to focus.

Cheerful yet gaudy pink slippers adorn my feet.
I dangle one carefully from my suspended right foot.
I am careful not to dropp it;
it's very important to stay in the game.

Crinkle, crinkle, crackle, sigh:
the paper leaves its mark on my fingers.
The smell of ink is as delicious as the scent of browning toast.
Today's Headlines skimmed, Sports banished, Classifieds cast aside until:
The Heaven Columns.

They are neat, orderly, alphabetical.
I start with A, and work my way through:
In his 44th year…
Beloved sister of…
Tragically Saturday…

Wait! Seems familiar!
My world stops for a second,
and then...
cheer and deliverance,
for I am wrong.

Free-will ride of the strangest thrill,
I sip the coffee loudly, swish!
A dropp splatters onto my robe of ghostly white
as I study the names, looking for patterns.
I try to crack the mysterious code
as though there is a hidden formula.

Column by column,
Name by name,
All races, creeds and years.
How did it happen?
Who weeps for them?
In lieu of flowers, where?

I sit back after imbibing and
tap my foot nervously after the slipper meets the floor.

All strangers today,
although I know all about them now;
where they were born and where they died.
I know who they loved
and where they’ll sleep tomorrow
and forever.

The Heaven Columns,
let you meet people,
long after they care to make acquaintance.

My back against the chair, I extend my legs
and hear the sounds of shower splashes.
Click, click, the nails of feline paws and
the television yammers and hums.

I only wish to read about it you see,
to carry on this ritual,
like the rite of morning coffee.

I like to receive the day
fortified by the faceless names,
thankful for the mystery of them.
All famous for a second, their names in print.

Afterlife rubbernecking is
a peculiar superstition,
cherished with the rise of the sun.
To miss one day will surely be,
like writing my own name on the page and
I've no desire to be famous.

The Heaven Columns:
my daybreak grind.