Undead Ambitions

Give me something to paste
my motivation on. Steeping, steaming,
get me out of the stumble-plod
college days under cafeteria tables.
Sucker-sorrow in a three-piece.

I hear tapping, and with full force flip
the wrist--weight over my shoulders
cracks open my arm to burst bone,
fragments I used to try to save
for my elderly years, my useless
elderly years when luke-warm water
sponges passively. No!

I forced my lies to pace in little dresses,
wrinkled collars and belts, but I won't
keep them circling anymore. The limp
flapping of my broken arm distracts
them from their even steps,
they drool, sticky down their fronts.

Laughing diners wipe pulsing
jaws on unbleached paper napkins,
no victory and no defeat in them.
Zombie lies are lurching
to the rhythm of this swinging limb

until they're tucked neatly with drab fleece
pull-overs and essays of reconciliation
or realizations of fate, all the puny
choking whispers plowed into barren fields.

By echoshindig