The Zombie Hour

The Zombie Hour

With an eight-ball in the pocket,
We stand by what might be a headlight,
Waiting for the zombies to arrive.
We will see them,
Yield them what will be a street,
Wrinkled and canker-sored,
Cross-legged with a gulping step,
They shall come.
Their ranks will be our promised land:
We want to pretend amongst them.
I will have my roll shirt on
And we will burn our faces,
Our tongues, our teeth.

We have already done with the dirt
Trying to make it seem authentic,
Trying to fit in amongst them,
And have emerged from our dressing room,
Full-burnt, full-absorbed, ready
For this: the zombie hour.

Now, sweat will bead,
Grime will cake,
Cigarette will replace cigarette.
We shall do our traipses,
Shuffle our shoelaces,
Step in their gum.
Their things are what we come for.
We will clink through your trash with them,
Discover discards, treasures,
Last sips of beer.
And fantasize about the lives,
From whence this trash came.
Their things are what we come for.

But when it is our time of the month,
We will be all right.
When the eight-ball is out,
We’ll have more.
When we have to go,
We’ll have a place.
We only come for the zombie hour,
Not the zombie life.
We’re tourists here, clean at the bottom,
Their things are what we come for.

More: Poetry

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