When the fiery orb descends beyond the mountains,
The chug chug of the industrial machine ceases.
And figures, like ants scampering out of its colony,
Spurt from the behemothic gate. Footsteps direct their way to the grocery.
How much is the steak? Tomorrow is Sunday.
I’ll feast upon steak and cheap wine.
I haven’t visited my mother for weeks.
Hope she’s topnotch.
I need to check my brother’s progress in rehab.
Johns’ coming over tonight.
Shall I wear thongs and high slit skirt?
My new bodycon dress will surely erupt volcanic tremors swallowing the purlieus into a hazy sphere.
Tring tring… Tring tring…
Hello!… Yeah, John… oh, that’s ok… really, it’s ok… bye…
I will have to watch TV alone.
I will have to jog alone.
I will have lunch alone.
I might one day dress up like an uptown punk and barge into a bar.
Or put on a bodice and a tutu made of turkey feathers to dance at a powwow.
I will finagle my way to a chair in some corporate office.
Or maybe, become an untrammeled tourist guide.
At parties, I will meet young men wearing musk colon.
I can hear us laughing together over a silly young lady
Dressed funny in sequins sitting on a couch in a corner.
Tomorrow I shall be a punk. Tomorrow I will barge into a bar.
Tomorrow I shall search for turkey feathers.
Tomorrow.

– Silba R Marak