The Death of the Room

Someone says something dark and hollow

and the room grows deadly, a morgue on

wheels, everyone suddenly becomes

funeral singers; it’s strange; a black puddle

entrances its way upon us, everyone begins

to look at their watches as if there’s

an execution they’re sadly missing, somewhere

else, as if this silence is decomposing the inner

nature of all of us, a corpse of a bird on the side of the road.

They look at me like I have an answer but I’m

all dumb, my teeth jittering in my mouth and my hands

shaking along to the rhythm of the pulsing sun; nodding

I give in, blind spit I guess, and the coolness of indecision

rushes over me like a salty wave, they soon nod too, blazed

out their skull by the passing comment, numb and jaded they

get up and continue with their days, while I’m still here, a

fender bender which for the first time in mankind

no one stops to look at.