A bird built that nest from wig bits, or human hair, hard to say. Must
have been some time ago. Before the storm, the bomb, the plague,
whatever it was, who remembers? No bird, no eggs. Just discolored
shell fragments and dried yellow goo. Depressing, don’t you think?
Talk to your therapist about that and watch your step as we crab
through the rubble; keep your beady eyes peeled. Alas, all these
broken bricks put to rest the myth of the third little pig, if you know
what I’m saying. maybe not. We tend to speak in metaphors these
days, thus disguising our duplicity, confusion, and scorn. Everything
doesn’t have to mean something, though everything usually does. You
want the meaning of life? That’s it, in a nutshell, hombre. Keep
moving, don’t stop. Feral dogs have been sighted. They don’t beg for
treats. That monstrosity by the toppled tin water tower used to be a
bridge. That’s right. I once rode my ten-speed over it. Nice view of the
city then. Still kinda nice, if you thin your eyes. That red fork tangled
in the rebar—it used to be a tricycle. Yeah. Another metaphor.

Poem by Salvatore Difalco

Image by Adam Strong

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