All the Kind Machines
by David Gianatasio
All the kind machines rock me to sleep every night. When we play chess, they let me win. Laughter blooms like roses. Jokes flow like wine.
And yet, sometimes, I glimpse rubble bobbing on the shag carpet beneath the caved-in ceiling of my living room. Through cracked plaster, a strange sun throbs dull and gray.
I start to remember....
But the machines speed up my injections, and soon the sun sports a cartoon smile.
My wife appears, though she's been dead for quite some time. She touches my lips and eyes.
My wife pixelates as I start to remember....
Once again, the needles hit home, and the machines bring me back to a brighter place.
