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
care packages
but we won't eat that
it's pre-packaged
some kind of nutrient dough
probably loaded with pacifizole
forget it
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.
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