Talking Points
Her world is a paranoid marketplace.
Fear is the zeitgeist and panic her shame.
She’d married her psyche to a dog whistle pimp
Who’d promised her he’d drain the swamp.
And sure enough, he did.
Drained it right into her swimming pool.
Idea thieves, poetry forgers, and high-water prophets
Trouble her intangibles to no end of sadness
With pressed-flower language, and wallpaper promises.
They give her Teflon skillets, microwavable plastic,
Flushable wipes, and jade v*gin* eggs
With which to contemplate the world to come,
While she’s sipping absinthe with Pablo, of course.
Now the dinky engine is on the narrow gauge
Approaching a junction packed with
Fingernail dirt and tactical nukes.
The flood of refugees is on the rise,
Taking the road to more primitive times.
Someone drank all the sanctified church wine.
Now she waits for the suicide drones.
Rosewater tonics won’t offer relief
When the bill for the wedding comes due,
Her field of dreams beneath a mushroom cloud.
Copyright © Michael Kalavik | Year Posted 2022
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