This poem is published in the Fou Magazine
In our city of tomorrow, machines have malfunctioned
again. So much gone haywire and once more we ask:
why are the things we designed to play chess trying to kill us?
It happens: a quiet dinner, interrupted at the window
by a pair of eyes, red and pulsing. Will you be the homeowner
to welcome the murderous toaster oven inside?
Erstwhile, in a lesser age at the zoo, you lunge
into the monster pit to retrieve a pretty lady’s errant hat.
Soon enough, hirsute with shame, you find yourself
in a Komodo Dragon’s claws, and in its jaws you recollect
your wrongs. Hard as it is, you must acknowledge
the Earth and its axis of which you are no longer part.
Imagine a hunter, his ankle snared in his bear trap.
Even now, at the city limits, ostriches are neck-deep in sand
and the first of many meteorologists lay down before the monsoon.
Who claims catastrophe as a crèche? The guilty are always
alphabetized in time. Calamity, though it could have been
by any hand, it was most likely ours, more likely mine.
Copyright 2008-2009. Adam O. Davis. All rights reserved.
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