Having reached their critical mass
still dreaming of capital success,
the damaged children of angry gods
drive too fast for the office,
running into rusted limozines,
abandoned trains and buses
at one-way tunnels and bridges,
arriving on foot at ten to five
when no one dares to tell how
the time passed on its way out,
though a tattered band
of widows and orphans advise
'Come back next century'
through whispers and giggles
at such a late appearance
in acrylic tails and claws,
too absurdly out of fashion
among the smog-clad shadows
of remnant furs and jewels,
yet as fire sales diminish,
ever so sadly remove them all
to parade and sell discounted copies
of their once carefully hidden scars
that now throb and rage, leap
and dance them bare-breasted
down through rock-jammed neighborhoods,
pot-holy streets of cracked-up sidewalks,
hip-hopping over the corpses,
past darkened subways and malls
to charge at last across the soaring
wind-washed arc of aged steel
far out into Verdant Woodland Retreats
where cool, clear streams begin
to bathe away their infections
and freshen hope
(for the twelfth time)
though glancing behind
notice the following
of thousands more -
Stop! they shriek,
reaching for guns
lost somwhere in passage,
but no one hears them,
so intent on escape,
dumb to the horde
they must now become,
sweeping all before them
over flooded highways
and vanished borders
where every new sanctuary
is creepier than the last.

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John Talbot Ross