by Michael Henrik Wynn
Honking horns and squabbling seagulls
kill my slumber,
the glare of bathroom lights,
cold water and a toothbrush
make me sick.
The cacophony of dawn
has conspired against my ailing back,
while a fat neighbor yells at his wife
somewhere in the distance,
and high-pitched pupils giggle,
as roads are crossed,
pulling hair
while I munch dry bread by the window.
I then tune-in to bulletins announcing
the end of the world by global warming,
and military vehicles have been observed,
and pathogens
are brewing in cows and dense jungles.
Humanity arrives by a ring at my door,
followed by my shuffles in slippers
to that obvious intrusion,
steaming java in hand.
«I am not buying!» I shout
at some grinning bearded stranger.
Then he says:
«I am from the CIA, and I just wish to inform you
that we are NOT involved in any conspiracy»
