By the light of an oil-barrel fire, an idea takes form.
In the back of a mind, psychic and gamine, trains of
thought meet at a dirt-road intersection, four-way
stop, rays charge to intercept, travelling at exactly
three-quarters of the speed of light. The wide-eyed
ingenue with the lemon-puckered mouth cannot but
stare in wonder (wander) from behind a blast screen.
Orange and red, the autumn-coloured realisation
lacks a mushroom cloud or any higher pennant to
announce its nativity. The bright flash sucks back
with the noise of a deflating bladder – splat – to
hold itself secure in the knowledge of its own
singularity. There are no shepherds nearby to hear
ghost particles proclaiming peace in the instants
before their inevitable, startling annihilation.
Ain't no trouble, Bubba, is all the advice offered by
the wrecker captain in the tall billed cap. Only thing is,
ain't no way I can get out before the event horizon
Nobody said a word, only raised antiquated sunglasses
to ward off the glare. If NASA had been in charge of
this operation, we might have stood a chance, but ideas
eat more fuel than a single mammal can safely secrete.
It has a hungry mouth, this one, and a warning sticker
too large even for the State of California. I told them
to retain the receipt until after Christmas had gone.