If I had known Lindsay feared zombies
I wouldn’t have dressed up as one for her party.
I thought the girl was kidding:
the machete under the couch,
a knapsack stocked with essentials,
the scooter hidden in the narrow alley.
I didn’t know the girl was prepared for Z-Day
when pasty corpses would come back.
I suppose it’s wise to fear something
that you can hack away,
better than fearing that you’ll end up at an outlet mall,
wearing an orange vest that goes well
with your receding hair line.
But when I’m done filling up her voicemail box
saying how much of an ass I am
I’m still left laughing
at the fact I came to the party:
gaunt and yellow-eyed,
dyed corn-syrup on my shirt
with a plastic foot in my mouth.
