TV Reporter: Are they…slow?
Sheriff: Yeah, they’re dead. They’re all messed up.
(Night of the Living Dead, 1968)
Your asshole brother was right all along.
When little Johnny taunted little you
over your father’s fresh grave, you knew
already they were coming, leaching
color out of the world.
Returning now, with this drained face, this
defeated walk, it’s evident your life’s
no major motion picture, not
even one of those flicks where you get
to make out in a convertible
before the slasher or the aliens
come bringing punishment.
You lug the banal wreath
over gray grass under a post-mortem
spring sky; when grownup John renews
his teasing it’s hardly news—you know
that shambling dead sexton
is just delivering
a package that’s been tracking you
all your life. Dutifully
you scream and struggle and flee—
still you know
even if you make it
to the car, you will find
Roy White is a blind person who lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota, with a lovely woman and a handsome dog. His poems and essays have appeared in BOAAT Journal, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Lascaux Review and elsewhere, and he blogs at https://lippenheimer.wordpress.com.