Peter Schireson: Voyage of the Beagle

It’s midnight, and I 

am a dotted line.

On the bar tv, there’s news 

of another spill, and a cold front 

from the Arctic, 

because there is still an Arctic, 

followed by pictures from Syria—

bony lips, black and green, of children 

gassed, eyes staring, blue tongues lolling.

Meanwhile, in France, a sect of nuns

has begun spontaneously meowing at Vespers.

I try to empty my mind of these images,

but it just fills up 

with the thought of emptying.

I order another margarita.

The guy on the barstool next to me 

is wearing a t-shirt that says Mi Taco Es Mi Taco. 

I say, “Nice shirt.” 

He says, “In the future, we’re all gonna be wearing silver jumpsuits.”

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Copyright 2019 Peter Schireson