05-07-2017, 03:39 PM
The Nightmall Dream
When the nightmall strikes and you run from crimes
you don't remember, you don't look back
until you reach the parking lot. The guards, half on foot,
half on segways, track like hounds. They don't have guns
so the porters play along: the way to your car
is covered in detergent slicks, candy spills, boxes to jump over.
It's as if the merchandise doesn't matter, as if justice
against a little thief or madman or pervert
is worth more than the consumer --
and that thought is what wakes you up,
not the bang on your head as your car hits a tree.
When the nightmall strikes and you run from crimes
you don't remember, you don't look back
until you reach the parking lot. The guards, half on foot,
half on segways, track like hounds. They don't have guns
so the porters play along: the way to your car
is covered in detergent slicks, candy spills, boxes to jump over.
It's as if the merchandise doesn't matter, as if justice
against a little thief or madman or pervert
is worth more than the consumer --
and that thought is what wakes you up,
not the bang on your head as your car hits a tree.