The grocery cart, over-laden, will careen abandoned through the parking lot of liquid silver puddles
Or else the little man will come stumbling from the strip club, visions of dancers still writhing in his engorged memory
Perhaps instead, the wasteland's barren silence will be cracked by the wet, green cry of the world's last newborn
Or maybe the frictionless slick vehicles of the interstellar commute will halt
as the velvet black expanse is torn asunder
And the light at last flows in, carrying all before itself on a standing wave.
(c) S.Kirk Pierzchala, 2021