1 Mom's a tiny bird Dad something of an allosaurus with radio activity on his breath. One up in flames, the other down to earth, but the poem watches on indifferent and amused, posterity hanging in the balance like it means something. You can just hear sniffling in the background. Meanwhile, space junk falls across the satellite image, striking some in the temples. They get up off their knees to slouch on their sofas with the rest of us.
Real salaries shrink as citizens of good breeding plan a more profound engagement with rehearsals.
Reclining, we dribble coffee or tea or high octane gasoline all over the carpet furniture, even our genitals itching to get busy with something, we don't know what. But the poem hasn't got a clue. When confronted directly it says it has all the words it needs to get by. Mom and Dad tumble in the elements, and the rest of us advance slowly our every movement monitored, tight astride the hunch that something needs to be done about this words or no, poem or no posterity or no. It doesn't, it can't end there, though.