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
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
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.