Boxed into three brick walls of dead end, I come to terms with impending death.
How did this happen?
Yesterday, I was a weatherman. Today, a chef
who prepared a zombie putanesca using only a hand grenade,
a stretch of atlanta highway and a squeeze of lemon.
Maybe Bobby Flay would have been proud.
Yesterday I might have said
“It’s a high of 27 and a meaty red blizzard headed to the northeast, folks”
a nervous chuckle escapes.
I clap a hand on my mouth. Stupid! I could be discovered. In response:
a group of drunkards dancing an out-of-tempo waltz approaches
Their tattered clothing rustles crusted with the blood
of the townspeople and with wedding rings, with intestines and lace
They shuffle and teeter and totter like babies walking to mama.
monstrous groaning babies crowding my one way out!
angrily I fire the rifle
but the clamour of the shots draws more of them near.
A Hundred drunken hungry babies waltzing towards me
Soon they will teach me to waltz too.