When the Womb is Gone

by

Sir Aloquacious von Wigglesworth

I hopped the fence like a giant frog. A decade had been replaced by a boy. The future was a peice of furniture freewheeling to a century but its chances were not good. We're not very skillful at creating antiques anymore. There will always be too many fences. And the fences will surely turn into walls. And fencing becomes waving. And hopping becomes crawling. And hoping becomes waiting. A 91 year old baby. A trembling palm reaching out. The century: a lonesome fable (no one lives to be a hundred). The womb is gone.