The city festers
By Daniel G
The city festers.
Dead of a heart attack at the
age of too long
money-greased palms and dried out skin.
The men in top hats break
their teeth on china plates
the window wipers cut their wrists
on broken glass.
The radioactive isotope of the city
had a half-life of too many wrinkled years.
Prayer mats are kindling,
crosses are coat hangers, turbans are scarves.
We are the gods now, the demons and the angels.
Our prophets’ words strangled
as they hang from shower curtains.
Flowers are for the dead, and we mourn for
ourselves with toilet paper roses