interior

He blinks his eyes
as if to change the channel

nothing changes

he is still surrounded by rubble
buildings tossed as if by
those malicious kids next door
lying broken like their
slaughtered toy soldiers

The end of a transmission line
sparks wildly in a puddle
beside a fallen shattered elm
then stops, steaming
bitter ozone stings his eyes
and he feels something warm and sticky
his hand is clutching Gerry’s
red and orange face
like his own
made up for the game

Will it be postponed?
Is it playing on perfect green turf
in the security of the UniDome™?
He lifts his remote and presses the buttons
but the Viera™ 60″ screen is gone.
He weeps, and sits waiting for the game
to resume.

[print_link]

(Visited 16 times, 1 visits today)
FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *