Slivers of recurrence

Watch a cat outside the window through intermittent "phwwww" billows of marijuana smoke.

Cat pauses, paws balanced on a fence top... ponders the leap across the gate.

Translucent gleam of ginger beer in a hi-ball glass.

Room temperature.

A dead rose in a sheen, shiny, black glazed pot.

The tiniest shoots of green leaves ~ Slivers of recurrence.

The nightclerk at a busy hotel has heavily lacquered hair. Jet black. Arabian Sea of dark, flattened, fastened ripples.
- Hello good afternoon my name is Hamid how may I helf you?
He whooshes breathlessly. An air of mischief to his perfunctoriness.

A Polish handyman has huge ears. His eyes are slanted; back-set. Six foot something-more-than-two. His ears less protrude than emerge, sweeping, flanking his face that comes to a sharp point at the front with the air of a giant. He smiles a warm smile in the silver lift.

A member of the housekeeping department juggles large oranges in the top floor bar at 11am. Eyes glistening with concentration he speaks, juggling deftly still
- Ere, tell you what I wouldn't say no t' bitta that bird what wuks in't office. Yuh know, one t'wi curly 'air and bewbs liht that."
Gestures; picks up a watermelon from the marble bar-top.
-Know watta mean?

A dead daffodil, plucked from the earth, bulb bulging, leaning out of a tiny wine goblet; glass emblazoned with colourful squares.

Time tangled in the throb of description.

Lingua faulting, rhythm slow to a dead-beat.

The pun is mightier than the sword.