by Daniel Peterson

This damned airplane hangar,
cement floors,
and bright, blood-red bazookas bending skyward.
Blue bridge trusses supporting its disgusting weight,
its vacuous space,
swallowing keystrokes and egos whole.
Oversized port windows;
we'’re drowning in a sea of escalators and I-beams
while voices boom out the final instructions
on this Titanic,
sinking hopes around the room in silent groans
and twisting stomachs that won'’t comply with orders.
This trail of fears,
we march towards our monoxide deaths
in perfect time
to feed on a second-to-last meal,
with no reprieve from the Governor’'s mansion this time.
He sheepishly guards us from our own skins,
the gleaming gold medals
to be placed ‘round our necks,
pinned roundly to our chests,
while tooting the national anthem of our debts.
Yet back, like lambs to the slaughter,
we return to the table—
see-through and air-tight—
until words puncture our hard-earned peace of mind
for a three-day step in time.
And at what cost? At what worth?
At long last.
At long last.


Posted on 08/11/2008
Copyright © 2023 Daniel Peterson

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