Last Friday Evening | Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review

Last Friday Evening

Last Friday Evening

Something terrific has happened

my android manservant, HE, whispers,

a synthetic peal HE thinks soothing.

I stop chopping scallions,

contemplate HE’s warning:

HE isn't programmed to soothe.

I pull the curtain cord:

The sun is a blood-orange

chrysalis cracking, a silken wet wing

emerges over a chasm

where the ground, the town,

the world, falls away.

Text my wife; she's gone

two hours, and HE whimpers

into the corner her reply:

stopped for dessert . . . saw a friend

. . . talking . . . be there soon.

She floats unalone on an island

of our crumbled world

hope of no returning,

tonguing a warm fork

mouthful of cataclysm.  



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