Spent walk writing
poems with zombies in place
of pigs and librarians.
You remember when
putting zombies in a poem
used to be funny?
Done with all that now
now wring my last words in
Sayonarau.
Each step falling flat
but walk I'm scaling down
slippery mountain.
Too much darkness
I even hope for zombies
to jump in my way.
So far still untouched.
Maybe plague doesn't want me.
Will anyone?
but now there's a light.
From train station night light or
snow reflecing moon?
None of the above
corpse bonfire going up
in train parking lot.
Why unseen so far?
Answered with the shadows of
still bodies in front.
Romero shuffle
towards the fire an its
home to human cries.
Zombies speed higher
yet no warmer than before
I see bulk take shape.
Zombies in parka
protected from stilling cold.
How New England.
Zombies turn, sensing
easier meat in place of
warmer bodies.
Decision costs them.
Somebody screams an alarm,
helping me to duck.
Frewheeling fire.
Headshots are eventual.
Bullets still bounce rails.
Brave enough to beg
for my life and risk
gunhappy bullet.
Somoene yells my voice
familiar. Family's
heard me squeal before.
Dragged to the fire
told to warm up by the death
but not to breathe in.
Voice of my uncle
jokes about leaving money
to pay for parking.
The ask how many
tried to make it home? I lie
and say all of them.
This wasn't the end.
Don't anyone dare to ask
if I was relieved.
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