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?
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.
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!
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