When I heard the news
I ran
so hard I stumbled
and
puked my guts
spilling onto the slick streets
worms pushed their way at me
prehensile bodies pressing against me
wet flesh of detached tentacles
nine minutes, eight. no time.
I ran,
exploded into the door
locked
six, five
while one was left open a crack
I pushed through like a worm
shelves a mess, stairs navigated
a slip of paper with a number at hand
spines and letters blurring by
I stop at the desk
"
Kurt Vonnegut is dead"
I told him. A grimace.
"
Cat's Cradle. it's the best one."
I nodded, took the leather-bound leaves
and ran
two, one
so it goes