2016 The End?
An unusually warm
December evening
here in the
factory parking lot
I can smell it
The smell of
fresh spilled blood
in the breeze
I sense that it
was murder?
of
what?
Murder of what do
I suppose?
The questions
hang in the air
like meat on a
hook,
on the tip of my
tongue,
on the edge of a
salty night.
Murder!
Does the
patrolman know?
Does the
distinguished Senator from Ohio?
While this
horrible globe panders to
the zombie geeks
and industrial might
While an
inconvenient corpse rots
in the night
Where the warming
of the earth
overpowers the
cooling of the dead
It is simply that
blood in the air
I go inside with
trepidation
to make a
desperate grab
at my meager
wages
No photo will
make
it into the
national geographic,
no centerfold
montage to foul play,
not one close up
of the pollution.
Not this close to
Christmas!
Matthew Sradeja
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