Desperate
cry! The Sapiens
climb out of molded
couch cushions,
fake forms of
human clay flesh burnt
by kilns and flaming
flash fiction.

Electric!
Eel-slippery, fat
fingers plug socks on
hide arches,
Yellow  Ems ™
where stems meet ground and
grease the pure dirt with
perspiration.

Be, oh! BE!  –
please? Be ‘fore the tail
forks its tip against
fine china,
‘fore the lungs,
with their breath, blacken
all that’s left of Gran’s
good silver.

“Gold though!” – sweet
leaf tea that glides smooth
down dry throats and helps
soothe, herbal
chamomile
confection that calls
the tailor in for
noose and suit.

“Spades!” I say –
so we dress for death,
not life; we mold and
rot in ‘tumes.
Give me my
birthday garb, unstarched,
wrinkled on its frame –
dusty then,
I will be happy then.