One Spring day, an unassuming sinkhole appeared in Aiken,
near the intersection of South Boundary and Whiskey Road.
Children and animals alike played with it.
They buried chicken bones down inside it.
(The animals, not so much the children.)
They shoved candy wrappers down inside it.
(The children, not so much the animals.)
Silly putty, chips, soda cans, coins, homework.
The tiny sinkhole stretched a little wider.
Soon, the adults were using the tiny hole for all means
of dumping trash, hiding their drugs, losing their drugs.
It became a place to hide treasure on Pirate Day.
Deeper and deeper the loot had to be buried.
(Bodies went missing, but no pirates were harmed.)
Cartels and thieves laid claim after midnight.
(Their belongings all disappeared before daylight.)
Guns, ammo, banana hammocks, iPads, phones.
The medium sinkhole stretched a little wider.
One day that hangry sinkhole swallowed an F-150
and the taste of the metal sent it over the deep end.
In its hungry anger it ate the crane sent in to rescue
the recently departed F-150 to no avail whatsoever.
In its hungry anger it ate the firetruck sent in to rescue
the recently departed crane crew to no avail whatsoever.
In its hungry anger it ate the news helicopter that flew
down, down, down, for a scoop to no avail whatsoever.
The frightened towns people called on the city for help.
The frightened city workers called on the county for help.
The frightened county workers called on the state for help.
The frightened state workers called on the feds for help.
The frightened feds said it’s a local issue and to please vote.
The frightened voters pulled up their sleeves and got to work.
The frightened onlookers all got whiplash from rubbernecking.
The frightened rubberneckers took frightened bathroom breaks.
They filled it with water, but still the sinkhole swallowed.
They filled it with concrete, but still the sinkhole swallowed.
They filled it with statues and post offices and malls galore.
They filled it with schools and airplanes and playgrounds, too.
They filled it with other roads and forests and plenty of picnics.
They filled it with swimming pools and highway rest stops.
They filled it with discos and saloons and humid honky-tonks.
They filled it with crippling doubt and shame and their fears.
Finally, the only thing that abated the sinkhole was fillable flow.
The hangry sinkhole suddenly clenched up and felt earthly full.
The rubberneckers lost interest and straightened their necks.
The city workers quickly paved over all of the cracks.
(Careful not to step on them to save their mothers’ backs.)
The children picked up all of their stray candy wrappers.
(And immediately left them in their parents’ back yards.)
Near the intersection of South Boundary and Whiskey Road,
legend has it, a tiny pinhole let out a loud, deeply satisfied burp.
is the author of the poetry collection Leaving Long Beach (Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House) as well as the forthcoming short story collection Circus Head (Sybaritic Press). He hosts the Make Your Own Fun podcast on YouTube.com.
