secret drones made out of cardboard
fly through ochre clouds exploding in a metallic sky
while catching the eye of artificial puzzle people, playing
guitar with a not-all-too-original idea
the fumbling strum of adolescent, technological innovation
changing minds into time-traveling farces
but at least it’s not generic;
though one might say it’s slightly genetic
total darkness
makes lobsters happy as they boil in plasma
anxiously awaiting butter logs stacking
up along the edges of existence;
poured down the side until cleanliness
means something akin to tastiness
but miracles are for the blind
blistering in an enchanted quagmire planned out on a napkin and thrown out, with prejudice
thick aroma wafts through the air, sipping coffee with a vacant stare,
the taste is bitter, the flavor bland,
a pale imitation of nostalgic receptors firing off into obscure directions
but still I drink it, day after day, decaf coffee that’s here to stay,
a small comfort, a ritual, a habit kept like a secret lover sent off into the night,
a keyboard typing out a last will with the delete button
for in this cup of memory and forget, somehow I find a way to keep the past a secret
bittersweet reminder of what once was, a faint echo of a time that’s now lost
moments of reflection and pause,
the last drop, dripped, spilled, as the doctor note says, no more caffeine, no more thrills
Fred Aiken Writing 