In his wallet, he carries business
cards, coal black, with no text,
no nothing, on either side.
He sits indoors all day, his pet
boa wrapped about his neck
as radio world
slides inside his ears. There’s been
a drought for forty days; a hole
is growing in the dome of sky he never
looks at; young men and women are
returning home in boxes to be
buried in geometric graveyards.
He is typing into cyberspace,
designing boutique hatred.
All he has to do is wait
for more leaves to fall.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #1: First Sentences, which required that the first sentence in the text must be used as given.