Holy Moly

Daytime TV fills the room
with useless effluent.
The mechanically recovered meat
of entertainment.
A vision of hell
not imagined by Dante,
Orwell or Aldous Huxley.

In this, our Brave New World
With no Last Rites
or intramuscular LSDs.
No priest at the bedside
or furrowed brow.
No Father or Son
Just you; screaming Holy Moly.

Was it worth the wait:
the nine and eighty years
of silence.
Or is this just jabber:
a story, then apology.
Something to comfort
your crusty old soul.

You’re alone in that hospital bed.
Mouth open, like a corpse.
Whimpering at night,
a child once again.
Do you see him in your dreams;
the man from your story.
Is it he who makes you scream.

Holy Moly.



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