The slippery slope is littered with grease monkeys.
Hot hands reach for the moon.
Small black objects appear and disappear with
such rapidity that they create a gray blur.
Thin little nobodies, disguised as lambs,
emerge from the dead zone carrying banners
that read, “We’ve been fleeced.”
Soon there are battalions of mailmen
with sacks of mail,
running in all directions.
Over the hill come the Vulgarians,
dressed in old newspapers and duct tape.
The grease monkeys scream.
Out come little conniption fits wearing tight blouses
and bright green booties.
“Run for your lives,” calls the town crier,
but most people agree that this is nothing new
and they go on about their business.
Before long, the sky darkens and it begins to rain.
This scene I’ve been describing,
which was painted with watercolors,
begins to dissolve.
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