The fan stops, the room warms.
Disasters, like perfections,
Happen with majestic rarity
All the time.
What town's nearby? Where's the road?
Well, you're not so far, though it's hard to see.
You give bad directions and point at air
While I eat a Snickers by the vending machine
(act like you care, I say to me).
The nice lady's Billy boy moans
In the backseat, like his father,
Hungry and not alone.
You start the fan, unplug the phone.
Back home others switch off lights,
Careening towards declarations of "I'm bored."
Leave your message before the tone.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord