World Without Words
by Noel Sloboda
Today seems not much different
from yesterday, Frank thinks,
coffee in hand, as he opens up
the box of news left before
the front door; The Daily Standard
mice scurry across his table,
one to the edge to keep
time, all others to the center
to enact the day before:
Outages Across Southern Provinces;
Rushes on Rhubarb Stockpiles;
Skirmishes in Eastern Midlands.
He is distracted from the headlining
performers, now embroiled in battle
with imaginary mortars, as he realizes
the date just stamped out by a pair
of pink feet: his mom’s birthday.
Frank curses, knowing he has no time
to train a mouse for a personal
greeting, resigns himself to sending
a flea circus just like last year.
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