He dialed 911. The war had just started. Bees fed on the
golden face of a sunflower in a city twelve-thousand miles
away. Pilots called them Flying Coffins.
His heart started going like an antiaircraft gun, a spy
caught leaving coded messages. Dusk seemed to fall by 2
p.m. Reporters interviewed mothers with dead children in
their arms. The wind from the heights acquired a touch of
red. Look out the window, the caller said, summer is over.
The purpose of catastrophe apartments eluded him. Taxis
ran on charcoal gas. He never requested a different ending
for the old people wrapped in rags.
Howie Good is the author a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks.