Revelation Zone

A streak of Monday cracks the pain for the seconds it takes to rise. The pen is a fingertip away. Playful, it runs for the cliff edge of the table split by varnished years when tiny people couldn't reach for the crumbs and the later days of singalong champagne.  Brain smog baffles the words that queue to straddle the bone-white page.  An idea vaults the chasm, knuckles the page and its done.  Curtains hardly filter the seagulls so listening to the follow-up isn't easy.  There's a revelation close by, plastic-wrapped, unable to break out, calling to be scissored free.  A conversation or even an exclamation by an unknown character in headgear might crash-helmet out, it could be mugged, tricked into the open.  The ending is within reach but the ground to that outpost is protected by a burlesque of clicking spoonfuls, a mob of ringtones, the tongues of floorboards, the swish of buttonless clothing.  I need to find the silent zone.