Falling asleep, deep-deep-deep. Babysitting another adult, two–three– generations removed from me.
“We’ll get that to you in a week.” I scoff. A week being sixty days, you mean. But I’m too clever, too snug, to call out the lies, the tales your fingers drum-on. After all, no good would come of’…such unrepentant honesty.
The very oxygen would be stolen from your gills.
No comeuppance allowed upstream in the laws of generational physics. So I wait, floating still in the current, until your ropes are cut and you’ll float away, while the brine and salt wash my eyes and hair. And you go to be judged at your sunset day.
Deep. Deep. Deep. When will these felons with blinders retire to the sea…?
We can be captains, we can be heroes of the elite.
Peregrine Arc 