It began as an ache.
Next, came the flashback.
Stark and disturbing.
Of the photograph, of the man.
The Corpse.
Let's call him Jon Doe.
Belongs to no one in particular.
Just floating, really.
Through the toxic cesspit of a Ghost Town.
Formerly known as New Orleans.
So sad, these unfolding chapters.
These apocalyptic times.
Brings a lump to my throat.
Makes me raw and fucking sentimental.
Third World poverty reflected in the murky depths.
Of a once hedonistic city.
E-coli bacteria in the water.
And refuse of human remains.
Yesterday vibrant.
Today, a fullstop.
#
People are talking:
"I'm scared right now...What's next?"
"Plague, pestilence and the four goddamn horsemen ..."
I offer with a wry grin.
#
I wonder about that man.
And how he ended up as floatsam in the food chain.
Deserted, in his hour of need.
I want to forget I ever made his acquaintance.
Sobering and heartbreaking as it was.
Poor soul.
Decomposing before our very eyes.
Our scrutiny and curiosity, ever so human.
RIP
Edited: PC
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Article comments
1 - DrPat
Interesting piece, Kable -- though you may want to check out The Terminator's Poetry Watch Blog (before he comes to check you out!)
This post came after the very first Weekly BlogScan I did. Note the focus on (and crtiticism of) prose-rendered-as-poetry.
FYI: MPHO is also a BlogCritic.
2 - Mary K. Williams
Kable -
Pretty good - and I don't really like poetry that much.
Thanks for showing a different way to look at things.