Callow Thought

by Dennis Mahagin

Alone

one winter night

in a drafty

domicile,

I'm "fiddle-funking" around

with my phone,

when I imagine John Cheever,

come down

from the indefatigable

ice-box clouds.

I wonder how

the famous writer

would characterize

Social Media.

"Thank you for not using terrible language,"

said John. "We did something along those lines

with Enormous Radio, you know ...What

I mean, if I'm not

mistaken," said Cheever; "what language

do you speak

fluently? ... At all events, if you wish

me to disparage,

my apologies, but I cannot

disparage something

I do not

understand ..."

I watched him look

up, tanned

leonine head

tilted back

as if seeking the sunlight,

that purest quarter from

which he'd come,

the most pristine force

in any universe to slice

those awful clouds

to ribbons.

"I suppose it's harmless," Cheever

continued, "some shoptalk at the station

rushing as it were

to catch the train

to Shady Hill...I don't wish to add

to all of that, yet someday

perhaps I will..."

In a burst of static

and Screensaver,

--jade, lava, rose quartz

exploding--

John was gone:

a skyscraper or giant

red book slamming

shut.

"Goodbye my

brother,

I'll add you

to my Friends List."

"Whatever

that means I'm sure,"

says Cheever,

"a friend

does trump venom

every time --"

and his kind

laughter rained

down

from the Heavens.