Now that the spaghetti’s settled in his belly
he has to admit, concede,
that this room’s not too bad.
A succession of paintings, photographs -
a plum Ford Cortina with ban-the-bomb lights,
a red rocking chair, President Lincoln
and a bowl of blue jelly.
Meanwhile, she drives down the highway.
It’s been a long day. Something orange, getting nearer.
White light shining, making a shadow, getting nearer,
filling the screen, filling the screen until she can’t see.
The knife, the cold blade,
the yellow implosion
as it touches the bulb.