we live in blown-out hulks, scrabbling
for the last of the canned goods
and making up art and poetry
to describe the modern human condition
the normals call us mutes
they live over there
see that gleaming dome?
inside they say are trees
they fly over, drop
but we won't eat that
some kind of nutrient dough
probably loaded with pacifizole
we grow our own
from what's left of the loam
and we roam in packs through
burnt-out zones, metal detectors
searching for a secret cache
last week I was out with a click, I
found a shelter! Cracked it, pulled
four people out - still alive! and one dead
kid (embalmed - crazy to see) They were
hysterical, insane to be pulled out
but you know they had the mother load
of canned goods in there
got me a promotion. Sheila
thinks I'm going places and she's
a great girl and all, but I think
I'm staying right here.
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
Try the RANDOM button, to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.
*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.