The World to Come
       

The warming has started. In the North, the dogs have grown so thin, their bones show through. In the South, the parks lay flat as wet tablecloths. In the East, no more flying violinists. Instead, there will be death announcements hammered onto the kiosks again, and the shoppers, their thin hair sprayed into saurian horns, dark henna red, will carry their bags to the meat shop as always, the bread shop as always, the Bull's Blood shop, as always, as always to the shop that sells the white cabbage. In the West, at the Automat, Edward Hopper's solitary customer has taken off a glove.

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Copyright © 2021 David Keplinger All rights reserved
from The World to Come
Conduit Books & Ephemera
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission