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.”
Copyright 2019 Peter Schireson
Silver jump suits……. that’s still vibrating for me
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