Tiny Destroyers – A poem.

Pretend maple seeds are helicopters—
missile fingers blast them from the sky
and watch them spiral,
almost graceful, until they land,

The seeds can be the people.
Passengers to capped mountains,
with ice picks and cleats,
they aim to brave glaciers.
Or the seeds can be soldiers—
nameless invaders that come
to scratch away our home.

Fingernail bullets shred wings
and eject the people.
Tiny hands clap, explosions.
The maple tree can only wave
as its children die in waves.

The yard burns—
silent voices call out
in search of the separated.
Their mother calls for dinner,
and the children abandon their play.
Leave behind a wake
of a hundred corpses burning.


When the Undead Get Old – A poem.

Children play zombie,
shamble and shriek.
They break character often.
Run and giggle—
“You’re dead if I touch you!”
At least they aren’t biting.
Stumble, feet trip like laces
tied, or mimic their father,
too much to drink.
Boys try to touch girls
and moan. The girls moan.
Later, the sounds are different—
they don’t play zombie.
Skin to skin they explore,
reach beyond where they were told.
Shamble through halls, bag slung
over sunken shoulders.
They look like zombies.
Nights spent with drink,
or books—each other. Moan.
Degrees earned. Time to work
to live. Stumble through
mountains of paper
they can’t climb. No time
for play. Wrinkled,
like the money they stuffed
into pockets and bank accounts.
On the porch, with whiskey or bourbon,
they watch their own shamble and shriek.
Children play zombie.


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