Modern Drapes

A ticking clock is melting in a brass melting pot.

A regime is falling, leaving the aristocrats

of before aching and fighting

not to be the peasants of tomorrow.

Mothers flip pancakes behind locked doors

and closed blinds, hearing nightmares

of the undead scathing malnourished nails

under a red moon; fear creeps into

the developments built yesterday.

Children watch zombie movies

behind picket fences, hiding under beds

when a knock comes at the door.

The monster underneath sits beside

as the mailman leaves the bills.

The paycheck is smaller,

and the envelopes are laughing

as Uncle Sam pierces his bloodshot eyes

in through the upstairs bedroom.

He needs his fix, and he wants you;

but his dealers are low on supply.

The pot is too hot, and the stew is evaporating;

it will soon be charred and stuck,

leaving other regimes to scrape off—at a cost.

The citizens are fuming, and clean air is limited

as the smog increases.

Throats are sore from tears,

and kids shooting hoops

don’t know why their neighbors

are slitting wrists

behind home security systems

and modern drapes.

The only thing left is the foundation of it all;

find speech and free will spilled out or gone.

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