IMAGINE

A stab at stability. Pretense down the mail shoot. Special delivery
on a cold rainy day. Russians teaching English at Oxford. The same old
janitors, mopping up after class.

Anthrax, a fast train to nowhere. A one-in-a-million chance and he
blows it. The sharpshooter in the tower takes aim.

“My fellow Vespucians,” he says. “My dandies and damsels.”

And off goes the round.

***
Up goes the curtain. Down comes the flag. Cubic inches of fire and
brimstone. Mad love in the pantry. Crystal droplets in the cuff of his
trousers. He combs back his hair and walks into the day.

It only hurts for a little while, and then they open the door.

–John Bennett