None can see the junkyard in this olive colored light.
Only three former mayors of this city have been divorced. And they dine together, weekly, at the Momentary Summit Family Restaurant.
From there, they see the chooglin sprawl of the trashplanes. They see it just fine.
The big guy with the tray of prepared meats has been paid for this work for seven years and he spends that money on corn colored pants. Corn is cooked by the chef too.
The chef wears fake blue shoes and has been doused in zigzag condiments — part of his education, you know.
A fading airman loses his lunch and the control panel lights up like Independence Day seen from a high drone. The sky loses its grip on the fine homemade plane.
Now the fields of rubbish suck in the doomed vehicle and its addled pilot, smack of aluminum slap rot in the milky humid night.
Up in the two star restaurant the gathered mayors and the big meat tray man in maize trousers watch the desperate descent and the ensuing fluctuation's easy glow, but feel that it is theirs alone — their private tragedy, their delightful pocket death.