Poem-A-Day: Day 275

Pack Animal

The turnstile clicks into position
halting backwards momentum.
The maneuvers are temporary though,
as backwards glances capture thousands
leaping over the turnstile in escape.
Salmon.
Nothing but salmon heading back
to some dismal breeding pit,
spawning irrationality and stupidity,
and being snatched by the claws,
ripped up through the black cloud skies.
Insects.
Nothing but insects ignoring the intercepts,
the beasts jumping forward,
forewarned that they have to pay to ride the game.
The suggestion is noted ,
and the beasts’ blind fury is not beleaguered.
Dogs.
The rabid dogs that run down life,
staring straight ahead,
cutting through the sludge-caked madness
with blaring red eyes, beating pulses,
struggling with little more than complete rage.
Humans.
The slovenly individualistic nightmare creature
stomping on the ground, the way, whatever.
It busily watches fore, back, and in circular swathes,
slashing and burning with chameleon eyes,
convinced that this is it.