Pink around its eyes; the sick sky.
My snapshot frames a lone bat
while night, like a kid in a wizard costume,
drapes its sleeve across the picnic-goers.
Brie gunk on plastic knives. Clots of wine.
Foil packets, crinkling.
A text came through, pale and greenish,
a single shoot in the dry expanse
of a once fertile sublime.
Ding! – like the wavering chime of a school bell
in an empty playground. Should I ask the bald guy
waving Mars Bars from the window of his convertible
to give me a ride?
There’s only one letter’s difference between ‘SMS’
and a distress signal. Back and forth,
our crappy haikus described springtime
in the language of winter.
Time passed. The night settled
into a soupy dullness
cloying and barnyard-damp
as the crowd thinned out in clumps,
a stadium of lethargy.
I traipsed home, guided by my iPhone
like a glow worm on the roof of a blue-black cave;