BACK
APOCALYPSE MAMBO
howie good
Then they glance at their watches
and gather up their papers,
the men with French cuffs
and painted-on hair
who decide because they can
whose child disappears,
the dark, insolvent shadow
of the airplane climbing
like the red in a thermometer,
passing over when least expected,
while we’re shoving it in,
or pulling it out, or reading this.
(c) 2008 by Howie Good