Zombie Loves to Make a Difference
I see a dead man swaying, lurching,
in a joggers tight clothes.
They are unnatural, neon colors
spandex notions not meant to fit a form
that bulges and lumps out from a rotting center
Some unsaid rule states
zombies don't belong
in poetry. Perhaps because
they do not read, only eat.
You don't read.
You never even leave the house
when that is foremost for a zombie,
waking and finding he is dead
and little has managed to change.
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