You read the outbound manifest reports
in a predictably clerical fashion
and the room is enraptured at the miracle
of your voice. There was a calamity
in the greenhouse that was
overlooked during the press conference.
A border collie was let loose
to run amok,
and he ate the tomatoes fresh off the vine.
Journeying down an alleyway I wonder if
there are mountains still in the
outside world, and if so, do they yet remain red,
and silver and blue.
Do others truly ride bikes in the countryside
where the windblown trees whimsically
bring a stillness to their bones?
Bob in maintenance dances to the
sound of your lyrical voice
reciting delivery schedules over the intercom
as he cleans up what has been dubbed
The Disturbance in the Greenery.
He bows to his red stained
mop, and weeps for the fate of the
paw printed concrete. An investigation has
been called forth led by one
Detective Monroe who has an
unnatural abhorrence for maintenance
of any kind.
I ponder retribution and its consequence
while collecting fresh sprigs of mint
at an open air market for the pork chops
I will be cooking tonight. There is a lovely star
in the sky, silver sparkling red in blue.
The sun’s light a grotesque monster
in comparison. I feel like pointing out
the star to the lady at the stand,
but her face is bored
and not inviting, taken in as she is
by your voice droning on about
exchanges and volatility
over the radio.
The scent of malevolence drifts over
the cobbled walk as I leave.
There were yellow flowers once that
lined the city streets.
From what I was told, they were
harvested in a glade deep in the woods
by the most desperate of people.
But where the flowers and the people have
disappeared to now
I cannot say.