EDEN SCRAPYARD
From his window above the scrapyard
he watches two little boys playing, climbing
over debris like monkeys in a cement cage,
firing plastic flashing gizmos to decide
the fate of the universe; scrambling
into mouldy bathtubs, pretending
that rust scales are skins shed by aliens. They
don't see the dogs crawling through
a hole in the fence. They speak into invisible
galactic transmitters and shoot death rays
that always miss.
At least, thinks the man whose vest is stained,
whose dog is dead - they are smallish dogs.
The dogs are unaware that the universe
may soon end, sniffing each other's backsides,
chasing each other to the tyres, almost
laughing in the spring sun.
The boys have captured each other's vessels
and lie low to refuel and plan the next assault.
They call furiously for back-up, but know, ultimately,
that this is something they need to face alone.
Being a hero will depend upon it.
The man turns to look at an empty chair
and wishes he could change the past.
He looks at the boys and remembers how, when
he was ten, he had beaten Mike Quickdraw to a duel,
how he had saved an entire town with just
a loaded finger; how delicious it was sharing
an ice-cream on the way home.
The dogs don't see the boys hiding in the bathtubs,
and if they smell them, don't care. The man thinks
of fields, of cowboy hats, of tall grass and friends.
One boy pierces the skin of his space capsule
and peers through; the other pushes
invisible buttons on his watch. The man
looks at the dogs and tries to recall
when last he'd fucked like that;
he looks at the chair and remembers
losing a world.
By now the boys can kill each other clearly,
but don't. Soon they grin and pretend to find it funny -
although, for one, the afternoon sun
seems hotter, and breathless,
like the animals.
The boys' eyes meet: they know what
is expected of them. One
motions the other to take cover and take aim.
The universe is secure.
That night, the man thinks of loss.
One boy thinks about his friend.

(c) Alan David Pritchard All Rights Reserved