Fred Miller

Fred Miller is a California writer. Over fifty of his storiesand poems have appeared in publications around theworld in the past ten years. Many may be found on hisblog:


          Doors are open, the time is now.
          Not much longer can we tarry,
          Got to hurry,  time’s awastin’.
          Doors are open, the time is now.

          How about skates, perhaps a ball,
          Just a bit less’n a day’s wage.
          Baby dolls with choices galore,
          Blue eyes or green, redheads and blondes.

          How about one like me, mamma?
          A firm, steady hand holds me back.
          Don’t grab, don’t touch, not yet our turn.
          When’s our turn, momma, aren’t we next?

          Aromas of hot grains popped fresh
          With salt, all tossed and kicked about.
          Savored sensations, laughs the crowd.
          Just for the sport of it, they say.

          Nasal sounds, an old Victrola.
          Wails of heartaches, dreams gone awry.
          Set backs and a pickup in debt.
          Not about us, no songs for us.

          Colored candies so cheap, so sweet.
          A taste for a penny for us,
          White chocolates and cremes for them.
          T’was just made that way, we’re assured.

          Like mushrooms sprouted from the floor,
          Bright stainless steel into cushions
          That sparkle, bright for the chosen.
          Not for me, not you, not for us.

          Twisted from a stalk by a mule.
          So refined, so white, and so pure.
          Comes quite natural from the Word,
          They say, now poured over my thoughts.

          Blues with sticks mill about outside
          Petting best friends, sharp teeth showin’.
          You can come this way if you dare,
          Hard showers just waitin’ for us.

          Permits restrictive for our kind:
          Not in a crowd, noise not allowed.
          Know your place. See the man coming?
          Look down, look down fast, know your place.

          Some I know gonna lose their jobs
          Wet moppin’ floors, takin’ out trash,
          Health card holders washin’ dishes.
          Dollar ten a day, it ain’t much.

          Doors are open, the time is now.
          We won’t tarry any longer.
          Stand up at last, got to hurry.
          Doors are open at last, at last.


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