On Sundays the creatures
Ooze from their awkward dwellings,
Like fat worms after a downpour,
And rush the City.
They infect silently with their sick eyes,
They brush along your shoulder in passing,
They exchange ***** money,
They cause accidents.
They stare at you from across
Your favorite diners
With black coffee depression
And mutter underneath their breaths:
"This isn't real."
By Corey Parsons
