He keeps screaming into his phone,
“My boy Damien is busy, man, like busy, busy, man. I’m not sure we’re going to have him this weekend for kickball …”
He’s pacing back and forth on the W train,
We’re halted two stops from Queensboro Plaza.
“He started a bakery where they sell socks … right?! Totally original, the dude is the fucking man,” he yells.
We buck forward a little bit, but the train is still stuck,
I turn up my headphones but I can still hear, “I don’t know, dude, I’ll probably see what Damien is doing tonight then get back to you.”
Conjured from the cellphone waves,
He stood there floating outside the windows,
It’s the child from The Omen,
All grown up with red eyes and a demonic look on his face.
The door opens for him and he steps in.
We all begin to bleed from our eyes and ears,
And just before I black out I look up at the guy with the cell phone and think,
“Of course this asshole is friends with the Devil.”
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 53 | Spring/Summer 2019