The Paper Boy Had Fallen Asleep
The paper boy had fallen asleep.
He lay curled up next to his bag of papers.
Should someone come and wake him?
And shout to the wondering people around:
Don’t be afraid, he’s not dead, only asleep.
There was no more news, whether good or bad.
Computer screens shimmered and gleamed, had
nothing to report.
The printing presses stood empty, printed only air and dew.
The tubercle bacilli had become resistant.
The resurrected sanatoria filled with patients.
Some slipped into asphyxiation. Unconscious and smiling
they left their lives, their rod-shaped resistant bacilli and pain.
A young woman tried on a wedding dress and veil,
while others ordered ever more costly dishes
only to turn away from them with rage and disgust.
The soldiers stood at the edge of the road with their machine guns.
Some showed pity and handed out snow
for the refugees to still their thirst.
Time blind they stared at the white moon.
They saw with alarm that their uniforms had been sewn in 1914
and that they were turning into their own ancestors.