Prompts
“Visions” are fine, even
“voices” as long as they don’t
tell you to hurt someone; but what
I get is neither vocal nor big-screen—
it’s like a fortune cookie
though more crabbed and obscure and without lucky numbers.
Says things like “While it rains, you’re safe.”
And indeed it’s raining—I can see through the skylight.
But “safe” from what? Well, I’ve forms
to fill out, and calls to make that will put me on hold
then cut me off. But I shouldn’t be neurotic
about interacting with
businesses I can still pay
or those small parts of government that still function—
they aren’t the Administration,
and what I have to beg
has nothing to do with dying, for a few years yet.
Perhaps the word “neurotic” is the key.
How long, I wonder, has it been with me?
The messages, such as they are, aren’t only words;
they’re often pictures, dreadfully cliché
but which engage me longer than they should.
Those currently so popular
films of a world without us—
how many years before towers collapse?
What sort of unheard noise
will all that glass make, falling?
On floors that remain unsubmerged, other
mammals at last enjoying a happy childhood.