Bouvet Island

He is the windswept,

loneliest rock, barren and

cover'd all in ice.

 

The most remote place

on Planet Earth. Frigid and

unpopulated,

 

coated in bird s**t

and fish guts, unmanned weather

stations. Amateur

 

radio nuts go

there to exploit the unused

prefix, Triple Y.

 

The man is Bouvet,

Bouvet Island, possessed

by the country of

 

fjords and Vikings

and heavy water that could

be green and glowing

 

detached away from

his emotions and feelings

of other people.

 

The Southern Ocean

South Africa, Australia,

Bouvet far away!

 

A volcanic spit.

A caldera with a lake of

hot, molten lava.

 

A ticking time bomb

set near a triple junction

of tectonic plates.

 

South America,

Antarctica, Africa,

the plates all collide.

 

A conclusion that

is inexorable and

frankly frightening.

 

The conduit is

a shotgun barrel waiting

for the buckshot to

 

exit. The crater

and the lava, the muzzle

and the spent cartridge,

 

distorting worldwide

normalcy for eons to come,

except he's a man

 

and the world is

his own small community.

A neutron bomb walks

 

in their midst. Every

man is an island until

the clock stops working!