Thursday, February 17, 2011

America's Last Supper

To me
It feels like
We’re trapped in a diner and
The blob is outside and
Slowly oozing in
Except we haven’t just run in with Jane’s brother
After he shot at the blob with a cap gun
We haven’t been trying to convince the town that it exists
We haven’t even noticed that the doctor and
The mechanic and
The janitor in Mr. Andrew's grocery store
Are missing
Eaten up
We’re just sitting in our booths
Eating an omelet or
A club sandwich
With a frilly toothpick stuck in the middle and
Sipping on a milkshake
Probably vanilla
We’re not going to discover that the thing hates cold
We won’t use the fire extinguishers on it
It won’t get flown to the North Pole
To wait for a sequel
We’re just going to be consumed
Sitting in our booths
Talking about the weather
Arguing about the bills
We’re trapped in a diner
Eating our last supper or
Lunch and
We may never know it

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