Wicker Spitoon

Can't we be more like the dead?
The more I try to find you
In the fog of loneliness
The more I recall my pre-plague
friends, how they'd stay
to work it out the night through
When talk was play was our
Way into pleasure, importance
This cold future came due
As they drew their last breaths.
No, I mean literally die, long
form, grotesque; but not
writhing, thanks to the drugs
we are currently not surviving
and while providing, sure,
prettier corpses, but also the
empty hole on somebody's list
of who's there when I'm old.



"Thanks to All of You Who've Died"
by Tom