Pete Dunstone
Threshold
As the sky darkens and sea foam whips from the waves, everyone’s talking about children who never call, who’ll be their online friend, naming storms and the last days of snow.
The machine shouts us all down with promises of latte after latte macchiato, clouds of milk steam fighting the scent of lemon, raspberry, and coconut sponge. Chairs, flaking rust and microplastics, scrape and squeak their secret code, sharing sap with the floorboards while two teenagers scream orders at the robot barista. It smiles a smile, splitting a universe somewhere, it’s eyes giving out some new form of light.
cyclone slam
coffee cups shaking
in our hands
About the Author
Pete Dunstone has had a fine art education and many different jobs, finally resting in horticulture. He likes plants, automata, woodworking and birding in the UK’s Somerset Levels. His poems have appeared in Blithe Spirit, Ephemera, Kingfisher, Failed Haiku, cho, and The Haibun Journal.