The Crater

There is someone - a boy. I shouldn't have taken the child here. I'm slipping, taking him with me; he won't let go of my hand. We are on the very verge of a deep pit, teetering upon its crumbling edge, at the craters floor a pool in those waters are sauropods, crocodilians. Scree rolls under our feet; the heavy handgun on my hip weighing us down, dragging us toward those saw-toothed muggers who now thrash in an expectant melee. In a dreaming funk, a pensive fear snatches at my flesh, Then as we slip and slide I glance at the boy seeing myself in him. I shout to that younger me that we both will die from the unforeseen one day, but not today for I exchanged that old revolver for a less heavy Glock. The scene melts, my child-self still clinging to my breath asking the bedroom ceiling: when?