Monday Poem by George Bab.saay Jr.

Walk straight, limp heart and heavy head
En route to ridicule road,
Quiet shrieks surround the bend.
Faces scarred, blaze miles ahead
as do red ears redder than red.

Play dead on grass,
On stone, on asphalt wrecked;
Or bake the grass; and stare at stones instead.

Within that stretch,
while others bleed
and sell their seed
sophistication grows,
somewhere (who knows?) .

Still, the weeds spread silent, mindless
under hundred heavy feet.
One way, the other, or;
we all die, and will,
and walk and laugh and weep
and play dead no more.