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.  

shortlink: dogb.us/friday

          

               

More Remarkable Finds
There’s No Place

There’s No Place

Four walls of high red brick: this is a house. Hides stretched taut over posts: this is a house. Earth and straw plied between timbers: this is a house.
Piano Concert

Piano Concert

Grand piano held a mouthful of maple tones. They cascaded with the release of pedal, keys and carnival percussion trapped bears and butterflies.
Guided by Voices

Guided by Voices

In the wilds of Upstate New York America, a Belarusian immigrant finds himself torn between the ideologies of family, Joseph Smith . . . and lo-fi indie rock.

Recent

Upcoming

  • Untitled
    a poem by Robert J. Howe
Track your submissions at Duotrope