Remnants — Episode 23

Flags unfurled by broken-beaked doves,

Flesh-encrusted pearls start the push and shove,

Parallel worlds and misbegotten love

Empty in swirls from the comet above.

What does that mean? The Poet stared down at the paper on the table, threw his pen at the page. His poetry had gone to shit since the Bad Thing. Anyone who read that garbage would run like hell. And stay far, far away.

He felt intense pressure on his bladder. He needed to go, but he didn’t want to get up.

The Poet closed his eyes, counted to ten. When he reopened them, he became aware of his surroundings. Open cans of food, most half-empty and spoiled, were stacked in odd arrangements on the tabletop. Everywhere he looked, garbage ripened. The odor corrupted the one-room shack. Forget the bathroom. He could smell it from here. He needed to get out.

He rose, wobbled. How long had he sat there? Surely not the days this mess would require. Too long, anyway.

The second step was easier than the first. He flung open the front door, stumbled into the yard, left behind the closed-in stench of the shack. Fresh air surrounded then invaded him. He became immersed in it. Its cleanness overwhelmed his mind.