2015 Coming Back

Purple sky rent by fire. Windows shot blasted by a fury of rain. He padded cautiously about the plush apartment. They said he should go. Flight across a mountainous spine to an expectant land. His health debated by a mob of sports media. Sitting quietly on a spacious sofa. She did not want him to go. They talked. They argued. And they finally agreed. She did not want that at all. He shrugged jaw set and weathered her displeasure.

Flapping blue tarpaulin draped over skinny rails. Prone in a cot cold as the grave. Staring at a crumpled plastic sky he fretted. Earlier in the day the police had called by. Hushed words with his captors beyond the door. He had kicked up a fuss alright. The police left. He slumped on the floor of his pristine cell.

Lurid scenes on the screen of gore and death. Heavy rock music English subtitles. He stank. Weighted by impotence he sat and stared. The door swung open. His white angel tall glanced at the screen. A sigh.

Rows of television monitors. News events playing out. Swirling crowds a burning car amid crackling gunshots. A man with mike in hand crouching in fear. In the studio young taut black men saunter with menace ease slung automatics swaying absently. He feels so crushed. So old.

Silence. Fractured shards of lucidity. Infection of blood a lagging spirit. Back. Waves of terror break in runnels of tears. A soft hand caresses and his fear subsides. A tall shimmering figure with glowing hair appears.

His companion in pale blue. They make slow progress through a crowded jostling room. Mike Ashley’s henchman reaches out. A sharp crack stuns the air. A shrieking black girl in a white gown blood pooling in the hollow of her shoulder.

Sitting there just so. Upright pensive biting her lip. She waits. Lying on his side wiggling his toes. Clenching his weak right hand. He stares and waits. Beyond the door metallic clattering. Muted voices. His back is turned to the daylight. Her precisely chosen words penetrate the fog ushering him into a new time.