GVR 443

Red lights ignite four hundred yards before a yellow Yield.
My brake pedal French kisses the rug.
That was strike one.
Ruler straight and seventeen inches from your bumper—
Almost hit by a pitch—
Near enough to spit on the faded blue New Jersey license plate:
Well-hydrated urine lettering: vintage 1853.
I should’ve known.
Strike two.
And here comes the payoff pitch:
Your ’89 Buick rolls a strenuous three miles per hour through the sign
And what should be seen peeping over the steering wheel
But the puff white bloom of a Q-tip with glasses.
Strike three: you’re old!



the walking dead look alive
but move at a glacial pace
with no structure to keep their attention
from wavering, from fading

their nervous tissue is dying
so they can only feel a selfish pain
and the pent up anger
from years of holding a bored stare
is the only thing burning in their dead hearts

with human money they buy serum
to keep their decaying flesh fresh
and then, like lemmings with an
entitled sense of dignity
they walk in line to the graveyard

and reserve a place
for their dead body to rest
empty like the void of space
and just as useless