by Chris Minor
There must be something I can say
About this mad world
That you've never heard before
If we lived in the space age
The sky still clear blue
Maybe I could implore
You for the time
I look at the screen
Try to pinpoint the hour
That the selfish disease
Metastasized
Were we all asleep?
Infected early?
Or just sprawled on the rug
Given our toys?
Idiots fly and
Classicists cry
New-age sadists
Force feed us manure
But a woman with work
Or a man without words
Just smile and wave
Could that be the cure?
How many years have passed
Since I considered
The destruction
And loss of my mind.
I gladly resisted
Declined their gift
Of infection, abandon
And a cheap glass of wine