The sound that reached my ears
was not what I had expected,
and I was surprised at the noise.
After the way he made rough
his voice,
and after the sibilant
hisss
of my own inner monologue,
the sound was quite pleasing,
as was the shock.
A confidant ‘present’,
in the presence
of vacillation
and lassitude.
The eruption was without pretext
and there were no lines to read between.
My aim was off.
The dissected shell hit the windshield
square in the centre
and spread out
reaching every corner
sliming down across the hood
sliding back across the roof.
There may have been one strand
in his hair,
and certainly there was a seed
on the right lens of his glasses.
Now there was more to say,
but his mouth remained
One
Silent
‘O’.
*
Ever changing and evolving, Alma Mobly is a writer living inside a small space in a small town; but filled with big ideas. She can be found at Literary House
Twisted Sister lit mag 