They want to eat us.
I’m sure of it.
Every bad zombie movie you’ve seen
cannot compare to those stares, the
sounds, bones and wheels squeaking, creaking
as one—the first shot of a tennis ball,
launched off the leg of a walker, signaling
the feed. The scrape of a grappling hook cane
on the floor, on our necks.
They want our youth.
They want the ability to once again walk
uphill for miles, both ways, with young
fleshy feet in the snow.
We’re being followed at a cool 2 feet per minute,
they're wearing white wrinkled masks,
dying their hair blue, blue! All to scare
me, you, slow us down so they can
wrap cords of envy around our bodies,
lasso our mouths with oxygen tank tubes
and drag us to their homes, chaining us
to the handles of their bathtubs.
They want to dunk us in Metamucil
and roll us in hard candies, then suck
our souls out between their dry, stained dentures.
They want to eat us.
I’m sure of it.