by Samantha Henderson
Dan’s old felt fedora
still grows from the hatstand
where he left it three years ago. “I’m off,”
he said, as he left
with his huge bundle of keys
and a sappy smile. “I’m off
to get a cake for Pete’s birthday
and a couple of six-packs, I guess.” I nodded,
once. I was pissed off, mildly so,
for no good reason I can remember. All they found
was a concentric series of circular
burn marks. And one sneaker,
There was no foot in it.
I made certain to ask.
I suppose they might have lied.
I still get calls
from the Ufologists, the New Atlanteans,
the Rosicrucians and the occasional
Hard Copy offered money, Nasa offered nada,
but was unexpectedly sympathetic.
(“Happens more often
than you might think,”
said one grizzled G-man.)
What bothers me most
is what happened to all those keys
and who has them
and what they unlock.
This poem first appeared
in Weird Tales in Spring of 2000.
This poem first appeared in Weird Tales in Spring of 2000.
Copyright © Samantha Henderson 2000
Photo Copyright © Eric Marin 2004
About the Author:
Henderson lives in
Lone Star Stories * Speculative Fiction and Poetry with a Texas Twist * Copyright © 2003-2004