Intensive Care – A Tragicomedy

The Prime Minister is dying

they’re spraying down the door of

No. 10 with a mixture of Lysol and bleach

they’ve taken all of the dishes from

his study

and broken them into small pieces

to be buried in a cairn somewhere in Wales

to be found 1000 years from now

by strange, dark little archaeologists

that left the colony on Alpha Centauri

because they wanted to know more about

“Enger-land” and why the kingdom

failed to self-sustain after so

much had been poured into its regal

monarchy.

The Prime Minister has died.

The ventilator had to be turned off

because his heart had stopped beating

the nurse has closed his eyes, staring

blue-eyes that, right as death took hold

saw the outline of the Divine

his soul shuddered in the presence of God.

His bushy blonde hair stirs in the

breeze of the A/C.

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