Done for the Night

It’s getting dark.

Yes, dark.

Smell of onions in the toolshed.

Behind the bar, a picture of a submarine.

What was that sound?

Sound of mockingbird.

No, the other sound.

Sound of steamshovel.

Not that one, the other one.

Sound of mutants devouring the Wilkinsons .

Nearly five o’clock.

Broke her viola, the brute.

Voices in the other room, in Spanish.

Pool of dirty light.

Not Spanish. Lithuanian.

Scream.

What is it?

Centipede.

Squashed.

Thank you.

At 350 degrees for five years.

Until the skin turns brown.

Borne swaddled over the burning cities.

Drove his cart and plough over the bones.

Roar of winter storm.

By Hogarth. A later piece.

Insurance.

Dust.

Wolof, an African language.

Silence.

 

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