In the Springtime of My Dystopia
There were signs. There were warnings.
We were too in love to pay much attention.
It was merely some background noise,
some clatter, inconvenient clutter.
What were those politicians droning on about?
Overly made-up talk show hosts harping on about
nonsense, trivialities, invented crises.
Grown men wearing the flag like a toga
or burning it in acts of performance art largesse.
There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.