Apocalypse Meow

At the foot of the stairs all the locusts have fallen dead.

In swarms they have come
crawling haphazard drunkards out of sidewalk cracks and broken bottles they have come
birthed by these southern heated nights, hot sex with the streetlamps glow shuddering
jagged and circular and pressing. This pressing heat.

And at the foot of the stairs all the locusts have fallen dead in a heap. Pile belly-up dry
legs stuck out like broken radio antennas searching for music too far away to feel.

In the store, the French music is playing too loudly. The needle skips on scratches. There is dust
all the way in her long hair. Nothing to buy, just piles faded piles and all these souls not talking. silently shifting.

The too-tall man has no hair. Wears short shorts and mouths "watermelon watermelon watermelon" so somebody will think he knows how to sing-a-long French. The music spins. Every so often the bell at the door will ring.

Under the streetlight, in passing, it is hard to say whether the corpse was a cat or a possum. There was no evidence of a tail.

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