Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

yesterday’s poem

they found it,
tucked into his food bin,
scrawled in charcoal on one of those thin lined pages –
what was probably the first and last poem chucky ever wrote.

“we shouldn’t let his rations go to waste,” says one of us
“that’s not what chucky would have wanted.”

she’s wrong, of course –
chucky would have wanted those turnips buried alongside him,
and his shirts, and that gold key he kept wrapped around his neck
he’d have wanted it all to go to rot, as he went to rot
over the past six months

i don’t voice my objections, though
because times are barely a step ahead of chucky
and we could use the food

I walk away with half a turnip and some guilt

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