Friday, September 15, 2006

#145: September 15, 2006

The zombie pulls himself out of his grave
and stands, a rotting husk against the night;
But no abandoned house, no island rave,
Nor shopping mall arrests his failing sight.

He sniffs vacant boulevards hungrily
and lunges toward a cat he cannot catch.
A squirrel perhaps? He cannot climb a tree;
The chattering rodents are more than his match.

No teenagers cavorting on the stones;
No graverobbers to fall under his teeth.
No satanists--he's withered and alone
As any three-week old memorial wreath.

He's hungry, has no victims, and he stinks;
"Things sure ain't like they used to be," he thinks.

1 comment:

middleclasstool said...

Back when I was a kid, we had REAL brains to eat!

Nicely done.