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Terror Network
by David HillI am alone.
My work buddy
Harold
has got the C.
Just outside the door
Big Daddy hides
in a blue metal box,
his frozen mouth goes
O,
as in "TerrOr"
big and bold
above the fold.
The cafeteria has distinct sections.
I sit in back, where the workers
break, whisper, whoop, smoke.
Water spots ripple the print;
orchids purple and green.
We shoo the big eyed fly
from table to table.
Shirley says:
They fired Nathans ass,
says hes comin back
blow the place up!.
Hope its my day off!
Sunlight slices the blinds
like little blades,
illuminates the airborne
that stains the tiles around the vents,
or settles in a lung.
Mother gives up driving
come the fall.
There's a chicken bone
beneath the booth
of the troubled couple.
The man asks,
When do you plan to move out?
as the lamp swings on a cord.
And I break a cool sweat trying,
trying to focus on the simple fare
before me,
again given opportunity
to accept
what cannot change. 10/14/2006 Author's Note: Goes on sale, come November.
Posted on 10/14/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 10/14/06 at 10:51 PM I feel like you have drawn me into this cafeteria of workers, so real I probably could reach under a table and come up with gum. Every word, from the "water spots" rippling the print, and the "big eyed fly" gives this the details that breathe depth into a poem's painting. The last stanza takes us from your detailed descriptions of the outside to how this affects you on the inside. A fine ending. |
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