A Yellow Doomsday Dress
 

Crows don't bark at gulls
in this town; it's raptors
that raise their ire. Rain beats
on billboards, streets, and rusty
souls hooked on suicide sauce
shot from needles dipped
in poppy stew.

Bells don't hastle heathens here;
Watchtower mags fade in hand.
Yard-sale signs on power poles point
the way to excersise machines and National
Geographic magazines driveway-cheap
while Wanda's corner freezes.
The law has bumped her
down to Tacoma;
now I feel as alone as I am.

Sirens might sound before the sting
of rays from shattered clouds flash
to break and bake us. Those with homes
will melt in place in front of screens,
behind the scenes, beside themselves. Oh,

neighbor; we should don yellow dresses
on this day; give the women
what's left of the war.
You and I
may meet outside, sniff
the sun's sweat on daisies,
and burn away as god's own
madmen amongst them.
 

© Dan Tompsett