The Night Plane Flies Low
The tenants of the apartments behind
our house rush through the narrow corridor
between a running wall and our windows.
I check the radium clock-face. Quite late.
‘May be someone is sick.’ My wife murmurs.
The miniscule insects inside our wooden frames
adopt silence. A low flying plane draws a line
of clouds in my head. I remember the time
my mother had a chemical imbalance.
We called the ER, and everyone moved
in a blur and moved nowhere. In the sky,
the Milky Way was clear and looked like
tin foil of a medicine strip.
Hangover
Hangover has my friend’s head
in its mouth. Its maws show
both his part and glints of its teeth.
Its nostrils flare up; its tail lashes
against the ground. Hangover has
my friend’s head in its maws.
We still have that heavy fuel on the rocks.
We have Dire Straits on the player.
On the dense sky of the forest we have
a window, and a city outside. Inside,
the beast eats the thoughts. The burning
sizzles to a stop. The smoke pollutes
the air. I hold my friend as if he is
one billion years and one lump of coal.
The fun is a sugar and gelatin, unburnt.
A low airplane screams that the rain will be coming.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
The author of ‘A White Cane For The Blind Lane’ and ‘How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch’ has ten books to his credit. He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the globe.
Artwork generated on Magic Studio
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