Philip F. Clark: The Drone

Vox Populi

The vindictive screech seeps from televisions,

millions of them like bright eyes in a dark wood. A child

works on an old computer, struggling with his common core.

A mother makes a bed, prepares her grief. A father

has yet to find a job. The bar closes; one long hanger-on

wonders if he has enough for a tip.

Someone is beheaded. A woman begs for change.

A fine party is underway, with porcelain and crystal

and the whispers of the rich—their clothes a sound

like no other—that sibilant silk and cashmere.

A pilot watches the moon, with his cargo

full of souls, dreaming of the stars.

A document is signed and lives disappear—

it’s easy, it’s ink. Kids hang out on the corner, smoking,

drinking; they learn that there is still that line

called ‘it ends here.’ They go silent at a flashing light.

Two girls discuss a breakup text…

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