Aftermath of a minor collision
The damage is inconsequential, mere molecular exchange
that it’s not worth bothering to get fixed. Those fanned striations
to metal and polycarbonate. The cracked plate remains legible.
But then the talking begins, and you gate-crash the narrative
with your machined hair, your plastic-coated name badge, all its
accompanying officiousness, its way that things have to be done.
Oblivious to the audience, you circle, fucking vulture, hungry for
the programme to kick in. You don’t get it, do you? This journey
of ours through the asteroids? You have no idea what’s coming next.
first published in Thirteen Myna Birds, 2017