A monster crawled through broken tunnels,
street lights ran freely,
stores emptied as the ghost hovered above
the clothing aisle as two Spanish lovers
ran out the sliding doors, eyes like dark fountains.
Fever climbed to a pitch not seen before,
doctors scratched their beards then died.
“Surely,” someone said, “the anti-Christ
has crawled from the cellars of Hell.”
“My god I believe an orgasm of irony
has visited our land.” The king cried,
“I’ll kill that bastard.”
That bastard left town on a politician’s
tan coat, polka dot hat, and a secret lover’s tight sweater.
Mama, I’d like to know you better but I’m dying on a trach tonight.