King

That night
a hazard of blowing streetlamps
crowned him.

Radios hissed
like feral cats
then died; the menagerie
of phones
would not stop
even with their cords
sliced; laptop
screens blanked
chucking back their owners'
pallid, ageing reflections.

As he marched
through the throaty underpass
cars slammed overhead
like pucks and cagebacks,
power steering turned to butter.
Headlights wept glass.

Near the coast
copters dropped
in russet contrails
rotors stammering
against the sunrise.

He walked into the waves.
No one stopped him.

The ocean flowing
like glue
around his beard,
you could hear outlet pipes
burst their joins
the distant shocks
like ordnance.