The Cup
© 2006 – toby boyle
the dust devil swirls
about the empty cup, a Giant Guzzler or
Super-Slurpee, I cannot
be sure.
The plastic cup makes hollow
echoes as it dances
around the empty street
and I watch, an audience of one,
as the street’s inhabitants sit
together alone,
within walls
as the sun beats down on the twirling cup
clitter-skitter-tonk;
alien spaceships descend, landing rockets
bellow as the sleek vessels
touch down
in the street.
Creatures emerge, much like those Steve Martin
described once in a movie,
large, with huge suckers on
tentacle arms
they collect samples – a dandelion,
garbage can,
tennis ball, a small stray cat,
then depart as quickly
as they had appeared,
the space engines sending shock waves
that send the cup into a new, dervish dance
skitter-tong-clitter-clitter;
I am again alone on the street
with the cup.
Homes with thick walls lining either side,
oblivious, holding fast
their contents
but now the earth shakes
and rumbles
and from its depths sprout a dozen
or more beasts,
long, brown giant worms, much like
the killer monsters in that Kevin Bacon movie,
and they twist together in pairs,
with a loud bass groaning of animal courtship
and lustful mating
sending the cup bouncing along
click-clitter-click-skitter;
a flash streaks across the cloudless sky
and a meteor plows
into the street,
throwing a shower of red
sparks amid
a deafening explosion,
and the brown worm creatures
disappear back into the ground.
I watch from a prone position, thrown
down by the encounter of the hot
space object against the hard black tar.
I notice the walls
of the homes are untouched,
the doors fastened steady.
The cup is sent skittering along yet again,
clitter-ting-ting-clitter;
All is as it was,
except for the battered street,
the missing earth specimens –
the ball, some weeds, garbage can,
a pet or two
and the plastic cup.
Caught by a chilling gust of air
it bounces crazily toward the
deep, smoldering crater
tong-clitter-skitter
with a final twist
on its rim the
cup drops in.
Klop!