written by: Rex Carey Arrasmith
I’m walking my dog, greeting the zombies.
Do they know they’re zombies? I ask the goth
kid on his skateboard, and the pony-tailed hipster
drinking his latte by the bus stop in the rain.
Humane, a word used for the kindness humans are.
Murderous and cruel, our existence is a horror
story told from the monster’s perspective.
Not strong, we outlast the strong. Not fast,
we outlast the fast. Mastodons, Dire Wolfs,
Giant Sloths, Irish Elks, Woolly Mammoths,
Dodos, Neanderthals—only Sapiens left. We Homos
did it with stones, spears, bow and arrow. We are zombies
looking for monsters. A friend told me: in England
they’re herding the over 70’s and putting them
in quarantine. Like the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty
Bang Bang trying to catch the elderly—perhaps
with cups of tea and cake?—in his big net.
If we wash our hands and stop kissing, we’re told,
the speedier this will be over. For the next weeks,
social distancing, two words best kept six feet apart.
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