Small-Town Terrorists
It was summer in the town I was once from. Laughing friends on their stomachs enjoyed a black television screen with their legs bent, waving in the air to the rhythm of what they hoped their babies would one day be named. I never got around to plugging in that TV. A sun ray still hanging in the sky on some invisible fishing line creates half-hearted shadows on the floor and makes the warm west wind set the maple branches to making love with the oak on the walls surrounding the one room in the house I never felt safe to be. A rumble. From three blocks away it sounds like it’s three inches close enough to kill the ticks on the stray dog that limps down the street. Hamsters in hand; black in right, brown in left; stepping quickly to the half-open front door to close it against the sound of Death scrapping a broken bottle on a tin roof – ready to jump. Our house on the part tar, part gravel road in the West part of town was the only two-bath box spared to the liquid homicide. The covered-in-sweat driver brings a bent cigarette to his sullen lips as his conscience dances in the passenger seat. Dust clouds behind the roaring rusty metal. The black hamster bites my finger. I rejoin my friends in front of the black television. I never got around to plugging it in.
Note: I took my dream and changed it around and ended up changing completely what it was about, but I still was able to use a lot of the same lines that I liked. Tell me what you think, please.
Note 2: I hate poetry. :)
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