Heading Headlong

That morning the sky fell open like a split melon, blue guts spilling onto the sideways. Those within eyeshot fell praying to their knees, the street a litter of weeping penitents. The man in the hat, his favorite bowler punched tightly onto his head, watched the unrepentant offer up their tears, a briny pool collecting in the middle of the street, a stray dog lapping up what remained of the night’s storm water. ‘…the curse of faith…’ thought the man in the hat, ‘…a Queen’s ransom for a pittance of forgiveness…’. (The Wigan sisters dance around the maypole under a robin’s egg blue sky). The Masnou sisters cha-cha round the junepole, the Cataluna Gvle sisters close on their heels. The Gavleborgs quintuplets chase the Lan Kiev sisters who chase the Kyyivs'ka Oblast quadruplets round and round, the Wigan sisters in hot pursuit. ‘…such nonsense…’ bleats the man in the hat, no one within earshot hearing a word he says. ‘…I have nothing more nor less to say, not an iota…’. Headlong heading headlong, the storm clouds gathering, a woolen knot of black grayness, his feet troubling the asphalt like two pony sticks, the man in the hat scurries, not a second to soon or too late. ‘…off with their heads, smarmy cads…’.