the end is nigh in a grocery store parking lot full of lost trolleys turned batting cages, barren shelves seemingly feeding the hysteria there's another clean up on aisle 3 a gallon of 2% milk coats the floor in white then turns a sickly shade of strawberry when a woman unknowingly cleans it with her bleeding hands No one is left to check us out so we'll wait until the stains are gone it's only a minute but that's all it needs so we eye each other behind masks and clutch our bread flower not able to distinguish a glare from a smile because all our squinted eyes look the same Especially in 5 o clock lights when we come home from offices that double as playrooms and bedrooms infirmaries and wards but we're all itching to crawl back into our cages and to be fed when the zookeeper makes his rounds in morning updates and nightly news we pay and run jump in our cars, still full of gas wipe off our milk and sing happy birthday to the trickle of the faucet
written 5 months ago, oh how the times haven't changed