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. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.