(And our souls)
I am not claiming the moral high ground here.
We are all on the savanna, after all.
The level playing field.
Moving through the tall grass.
The things that hope to bring us down,
Merely have to wait by the watering hole.
In the shadows, as the hot noon sun
We’ll arrive, eventually.
We’ll slow down, eventually.
Or our minds will wander.
When the sky becomes silent
As the earth holds it breath.
I imagine this:
Our installment, as it were.
After the aliens had arrived.
After they had finished with us
Toiling in the mines.
Digging up the precious stuff.
Mounting us in museums
With our rigor mortis hideous grins.
And our translucent muscles,
Straining to flee death.
And yet we have done it ourselves.
Hand that cadaver some sports equipment!
(For the sudden death playoff)
The glassy eye
Frozen in the socket.
For some far away ball.
Serve it up as you like it.
I will not go to that Temple of Doom.
With ice cream cone in hand.
I prefer my death in the comic abstract.
On the suburban front lawn.
The zombies drip blood from the mouth.
But you can’t smell it.
And the hatchet makes you laugh.
The Sheriff of Nottingham
Said of Robin Hood
As he stole from the rich.
“He’s a little bit in love with death.”
Aren’t we all.