eRIC DAVID HELMS
SUNDAY, 8 .21.2022
Mindful, the glass teepees of tomorrow's city
vanished behind a broken dresser of cloud
out from which yesterday's front-page picture
got tossed for garbage after some major-
league god crumpled his newspaper into a ball.
On Sundays, I used to read the New York Times--
like religiously inside a decrepit tenement's icebox,
a means to make up for my thoughts'
bloody petrol and gasoline, but that went awry
like arctic honey and immune-resistant bats
top Republicans went around selling
to the moon and back to the dark side
of China--where I'm the tired husk of corn
atop an old heap of the divine
just about to be set by match, to fire.