The Walrus and the Carpenter

"I'm reading a book" he says.
And smacks the paperback up against the glass.
"How to Break the Spell" it says.
In -red-block-letters-.
"It's about falling out of love" he says.
You need a hug, I think.

We chuckle.

I wonder how serious this is.
Not as serious as the -red-line-poetry-
we both wrote back in high school certainly.
Sarcasm then.
He learns there was truth in it for others then.

We swap stories.
I know his is doomed.
Malformed.
Should have been left to die on the mountains
like Spartan children
probably.

No matter.

It is about religion.
So more like witch hunts.
Hysteria and strange brews.
Picket fences and communion.

I contemplate accents.
Expectations.
Gold bands which bind.
Truths.

The conversation is kept light, jovial.
Behind my glass I can hide easily.
Inside his hoodie he is safe.
Jumpers and distance.
We are missing one though.
The blue elephant on the parcheesi board.

We are missing many things
it turns out.
Loose ends, as it were.

We will hook up electrodes to our brains later,
imitate rats and press the -big-red-button-
until we die of starvation.

If only there was a happiness machine.