Paradise is semi-empty they should have
lowered the entrance price or took more
reservations online while the manager—
picture a cardiac arrest—is sweating and
moshing kids once children have sensed
the panic scream or silently leave the pool
the chef forgot to clean the fish correctly
the waiter eloped with a groupie from merchandising
the barkeep is petrified, say ossified twice—
picture a devilled egg—raisining in formaldehyde
while the owner always brilliant at sales
is banking in Switzerland staying neutral
as marketing guru do, of course the depth
of paradise is two feet three inches not enough
for stage dives or escape—security walkie-talkies
Lock all exits, everyone is leaving
a fire has risen from basement vents
only the band can see and doesn’t care
impressed by the investment in special effects
they play this moment in the limelight nothing will
take anything away from ten seconds of fame
as the flames rise and rise onto tomorrow’s front-page
DAVID MORGAN O’CONNOR is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is currently based in Albuquerque, where a short story collection progresses. He contributes monthly to New Pages and The Review Review. His writing has appeared in Across the Margin, After the Pause, Barcelona Metropolitan, Beechwood Review, Bohemia, Cecile’s Writers’ Magazine, Collective Exile, Fiction Magazine, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination), The Guardian, Headland, and The New Quarterly. You can find out more on Twitter @dmoconnorwrites and on his website davidmorganoconnor.com.
