An itinerary:
The room empty but echoes
of a voice miles away;
playful with so much space.

A single timid light,
huddled in the shadows,
anxious and dim company,
leaving the room its secrets.

A laugh shared,
some flint and steel,
to ignite the cold fire,
that distance put to embers.

A foreign bed,
eager to be what it is,
but, so often,
too much of what it is not.

There is no knock.

In silence a figure enters,
with confident strides,
and a club in hand,
they cross the sea of darkness,
from the door to the bed.

They beat the man to death,
in but three strikes,
erasing all the moments past,
and all those to come.

There was no fight,
absurdity is its own concussion,
only some bewildered protests,
labored breathing.

On the other end of the phone,
who knows how far away,
a voice asks questions:

“What’s going on,”
“are you alright,”
“can you hear me?”
The things you ask,
when you already know the answer.

For a long time,
they keep asking.
Absurdity is its own concussion.