clappy carbos had called us into
a coma. my comatose classless
colleagues compounded that con
founding condition, by causing a
curious cacophony, a chorus of
curt, wheezed-out creaks and
clinks, the chorale of our conked-
out crew. cleaving to a conscious
state i contemplated karmic excus
es and other credible causes for us
crapped-out kiddos. “of course!”
i cried, conking my cranium, which
led to a bit of inconsequential com
motion among my crumpled and
clumped-up companions. con
torted into a quivering but quiet
cackle, i came to the correct con
clusion: clearly our schoolkid
days were kaput. we’d each crept
begrudgingly beyond coming of age
cadets and into crinkled old codgers.
disconsolate, i crawled back under the
covers to coalesce with my cadre of
coots on the colder edge of the cosmos.
