Published in Sledgehammer Lit
The Edge of the Bed
At first, we are waiting on a large terrace. A clatter of plates.
Distant footsteps. All the languages are foreign. Everyone has a dog.
Twice as many people as expected are here.
We are on a list but not the most important one.
We are asked to leave. By whose authority, I loudly demand.
People turn to stare. Some mutter. Perhaps this is all a mistake.
You point out inconsistencies in the man’s vocabulary.
It appears that he is reading from a script on his cell phone.
We are sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed.
Our foreheads are touching, or possibly our hands.
We review what has happened. We seek explanations.
None of our theories are an exact fit for the circumstances.
I ask if other people always finish your sentences.
That, you tell me, is true poetry.
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