No explanation was offered for the lack of ring tones
and pre-recorded voices. The few who woke of their own accord
curled quietly out of bed, not disturbing their
partners. They read on the sofa
or sat comfortably watching the trees.
The city center empty of cars.
One young child walked a mile to a park and back
along the yellow lines. He was unharmed
and no one who saw him managed to call
the police. His mother, waking
hours later, found him lying on the living
room floor, drawing trees in outlandish colors.
Most of my poems are set in a world that looks like ours at first glance, but it contains unsettling differences. It could be ours, but you know it's not, because houses self-destruct and people vanish. When I first saw Jeremy Miranda's work, I felt like he was painting the world that I was writing about.