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.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.