Automatons: Life Goes On

Nightly at nine
the car pulls in
the engine dies in the garage.
He remains in the driver's seat
just a moment
blank wall ahead.
Then gargantuan effort
he is up
crossing the threshold of
his abode.
Into the fitful light of the television screen
eyes hardly alive
she rises
arms stretched before her like in the old
Frankenstein movies.
On the kitchen table
cold, congealed fat
on browned beef
and rice still hot and moist in the rice cooker.
The beeping buttons
as she forces the microwave machine to leach
life-giving heat
back into the food.
It quickly dissipates.
They retire to the embrace of the dusty sofa
a silence
and wearied concentration upon the
forgiving screen ahead.

Above the automatic couple
in a room abandoned long ago
by the death of a troubled Son
the covers of time have softened
the harsh lines of the furniture.

It's a crystal vase too

delicate to handle,

eas'ly broken.

At certain pitches

certain tones in the sound spectrum

glass shatters.

The shrieks
banshee cries on a windless night
red is the color of the day.

Shards of glass are sharp cutting

tools good for drawing bright

crimson blood paint soul.

3 A.M. a good time as good
as any
Son thinks.
Fretful pulling of the rope
scratchy stuff and wiry
veins bulging around his neck.
It's a silence always craved
for always
to be.

Beautiful is the sound of glass

pieces falling into an empty

trash can.

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