I ambled out the gate, down the street, and noticed:
- Everyone was going my way.
- Everyone was on foot.
Well, you can imagine what I thought,
I’ve fallen in with a zombie horde!
But, how to check?
Somehow asking,
“What is your stance on raw brain?”
seemed awkward.
So I concluded that I was—unquestionably—among zombies.
A sadness followed.
Couldn’t they smell that my brains were fresh, disease-free, and everything a Zombie finds delicious?
Did they know something that I didn’t?
Had my brain gone bad without my knowing?
And how could one ever know whether the thing one knows with is sour?
The sadness was short-lived.
A dilemma followed.
For I saw a man walking toward me, against the horde’s flow.
If I didn’t club him in head and try to eat his brain—given his clear unhorde-like behavior–would the horde realize that I was an imposter?
If I did… Well, I would be worse than Tom Hanks trying to get into that coconut in “Cast Away.”
Quite frankly, I had no idea how to get to the brains.
Should that be something I should know?
A piece of common knowledge I’d lost when my brain curdled?
But the horde didn’t descend on the man.
So I concluded it was–unquestionably–a defective zombie horde.
And I went about my day.
By B Gourley in humor, poem, Poetry, Story on October 20, 2016.
