and my brother in one room and
my sister on the floor and
all of us liars
all of us dying
our entire lives
small fingers scratching at the
kitchen door,
but nothing to be afraid of
but nothing
and not a whole lot of time,
but what were you expecting?
after the war comes the plague and
then, after the plague, a war
man across the street with a gun,
and this is what his
youngest child shoots him with
irony, maybe,
if that’s your thing,
or maybe tragedy
maybe vengeance
we all need to figure out
exactly how much shit we’re
willing to eat, then plan
our next move
consider who we love
measure the distance from
this desert to the next
understand that you can only
ever be a reflection of
the emptiness you embrace