Afraid of what I’m seeing
out the front window:

a cloudburst
each drop
nearly the size of an egg
and smelling of sulfur.

Eggs falling from the sky,
exploding upon impact.

Of course, half the smell out there
is likely coming
from the bodies of the dead.

I would say this is all a dream,
but I am fully awake and clothed
to go shopping.
I’d be out there already
were it not for the fear of the rain
that in spite of its volume
has not wet the street at all.

And now, I have to say,
the dead have vanished too. 

This is perplexing,
terrifying… 

perhaps
this is prophecy?  What day is this?
What’s the date?
Maybe it’s all from some drug
I don’t know I’ve taken?
Yet I feel one hundred percent
normal…

maybe this
is what normal is going to feel like
and I’ve surrendered?

Maybe
the lack of devastation
is in fact
the illusion?

dear joe,

please,
i want to come home.  

it’s very bright here.  
the food is good,  
the water’s clean,
the beatings are
practically
nonexistent. 

still, 
I want to come home.

dear joe, 

there are no locks on the doors.
we come and go as we please.
we wear what we want.

dear joe, 
i want to come home.

they keep telling me I am home.
they keep saying they love me.
they keep calling me a name
and claiming it’s mine, 
but it’s not mine.

dear joe,

I apologize for the informality
but I find when I use
your preferred name

nothing happens. 

it’s sinister and puzzling how
you aren’t answering.

I want to come home
and you’re not answering.
nothing happens.

maybe home
is wherever you end up
when you reach your limit
on answers?  when stuff
stops happening?

dear joe,
no matter.
if this is home,
supposed to be home,

make it feel better,
I beg of you,
please.