insipid moments crushed up into tiny powder
laid out on the table, perhaps one made out of mahogany, or real oak,
maybe some new-age marble made in a lap
under the thumbprint of artificial intelligence glowing like an ember
flowering into jasmine-scented massacres of a future too dumb or realistic
to imagine, over a cup of tea,
perhaps Earl Grey
made simply insipid with little noises,
or perhaps not
“I don’t know if I can take this anymore.”
“What?”
“Life, Tom. Life. I just don’t think I can keep going.”
“All right. That’s something.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Don’t you think this is something you should be telling, I dunno, your therapist, a doctor, hell, maybe even a cop? They seem like they might be equipped to handle this conversation.”
“You’re my best friend. Why can’t I confide in you?”
“Because I don’t care.”
“You don’t care if I kill myself?”
“Not particularly.”
The phone cut out. I checked my signal, but it, along with my hopes of connecting with Tom, the guy I met outside the arcade, or having a healthy conversation with a compatriot flittered off into the mist, never to be heard from again.
Fred Aiken Writing 