Vertical cigarettes on the skyline,

Each one a head on a pike.

It’s hard to see in the nighttime—

Is that a cellphone or a knife?

 

Their bones become burnt plastic

And their blood is Flint water.

All tendons are elastic—

Tears evaporate, the world gets hotter.

 

Rows of suburban houses in riot gear,

Nuclear families spewing radiation

And while their windows seem clear

Tear gas leaks from the foundation.

 

And within this wasteland, they are told

“It’s all in your head, don’t get bold”