Nothing Out There Poem by Brian Rihlmann

I grab what's left
of a rotisserie chicken
from the fridge
and walk past my roommate
sitting on the couch,
who says "Hey, "
and thankfully nothing more, like
"How was your week? "

I grunt in reply,
head to my room,
close the door,
and lock it.

I sit cross legged on the floor,
open the plastic container
and dig into the poor dead thing,
tearing cold flesh from bone,
ripping sinews apart,
devouring every leftover scrap,
like a cannibal, hiding evidence.

I chew, but don't taste.
I am a lone animal,
separated from my pack.
I must finish quickly
before other predators come,
bigger, with sharper claws
and fangs.

It is done.
I pick at my teeth,
lick my fingertips,
and look at the pile
of bones and skin,
lying there soulless,
on a Friday evening,
It's days of clucking
around the barnyard
pecking at the dusty ground
long gone.

I dump the carcass
in the trash,
then peek out the window,
and close the blinds
against early twilight.

There's nothing out there.
I flop my own carcass
down on the bed
pull the blanket
over my head,
snuffing out what's left
of the day.


I grab what's left
of a rotisserie chicken
from the fridge
and walk past my roommate
sitting on the couch,
who says "Hey, "
and thankfully nothing more, like
"How was your week? "

I grunt in reply,
head to my room,
close the door,
and lock it.

I sit cross legged on the floor,
open the plastic container
and dig into the poor dead thing,
tearing cold flesh from bone,
ripping sinews apart,
devouring every leftover scrap,
like a cannibal, hiding evidence.

I chew, but don't taste.
I am a lone animal,
separated from my pack.
I must finish quickly
before other predators come,
bigger, with sharper claws
and fangs.

It is done.
I pick at my teeth,
lick my fingertips,
and look at the pile
of bones and skin,
lying there soulless,
on a Friday evening,
It's days of clucking
around the barnyard
pecking at the dusty ground
long gone.

I dump the carcass
in the trash,
then peek out the window,
and close the blinds
against early twilight.

There's nothing out there.
I flop my own carcass
down on the bed
pull the blanket
over my head,
snuffing out what's left
of the day.