1001/1011 by Thomas Reed
A bug:
little long thing, sat on an eyelash.
All about is tremulant:
the pudgy hand of a child wipes tears.
She cries, "MOM!",
who runs from across the street, not looking,
to coddle, kiss, talk sweet things:
meatloaf, mashed potatoes, apple pie,
lies about who will be there to share.
Bank tellers leave their posts;
shops left empty; cars pulling up;
all join the crowd:
people holding hands,
sharing "it-can't-be"s and "oh-my-god"s;
threats, worries, consolations; all rise,
like bleats in an abattoir,
some lambs flossy white, others greyed,
each voice lost in the flood of the whole.
A crash; a scream;
the lambs are silenced.
All tumbles:
dust, rubble, glass, steel,
desks turned to splinters.
A final crash, then calm.
Among the ruin, some find books, crushed lunchboxes,
smashed "World's Best Dad" mugs.
Unlucky lambs find bodies, or parts of bodies.
Thom Reed is a student who spends most of his time watching old cartoons and sleeping. He'd like to write an existentialist masterpiece someday, but for now he needs to pick a haircut.
©2010 Thomas Reed, All Rights Reserved
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