You see October at the foot of hills,
the leaves of suburbs rotting in the yards
of smiling couch-potatoes, hands on hearts
that beat because they can. They’ve made their wills.
They will bequeath their kingdoms and their money
to bunny shelters. Childless, they will send
their love to Bantu tribesmen, give the honey
from their jars to geisha girls who bend
and make their beds. Yes, you can smell the rot
as you see young men dressed as Catholic nuns
parade the streets, young women crude and worn
by buck abuse, and yahoos watching, fraught
with fear, and waving flags. The evil runs
its course. A rough beast slouches to be born.
