The Object

The seats, a cheap velour were clammy and shiny in spots like jacket elbows or the smooth matted heads of bulls. The arm rests were worn down to the metal. It was cold, the screen showing nothing yet, ghosting a pale blue as the whites of old peoples eyes.

I realized that outside it was raining- I could hear it on the roof. When was I? Decades past it seemed. The clock on the wall buzzing very faintly. The air itself here the same cube of air it was buried with. I had been buried with it. The rain falling on a metal box with no seams. Was it the bobbing Plenum of the arc guided down the brook? Was it to leave the delta to unsteady at sea? Will it play its dream humming quietly, never sinking?

Washed up eventually on shore I brushed off the sand- it sits on my shelf, rusted at the corners- I’m not sure how to ever explain its purpose.