West Philadelphia in the Snow

 

Outside, the Monsters wore people-masks that covered their faces,

they paid top-dollar for a quick December,

and brooded over their pensions.

When they weren't feeding,

The Monsters busied themselves with trifles 

and fantasy football.

One night,
A congregation of young philosophers assembled through the snow
smuggling snark and thrift - 

They descended the stairs

in pairs, and slunk to the door of the basement wearing
people-masks too, like you do.

A throng of aesthetes, dissidents, exuberants.

Inside, Fransisco kept cogless time on his jeans with spoons - 

There were Christmas lights that'd been hung in June, and 

all around

beards were endlessly unbearding beards.

"Hootin' Annie,"

as she was known in trendy people-places, writhed, her eyes

twisted to the ceiling, chin

to the ground, saying,

they'll try to sequester you away in taxicabs of comfort!

and a rowdy bottle launched itself over the crowd

becoming perfect as it shattered

on the basement wall.

-

Meanwhile the throng twitched like a rabid dream

waking Bach upstairs in his powdered curls, who

promptly joined the revelry with

his tropical drink and

his lisp.

In the corner

the son of a politician brandished glistening

teeth of crime, wore horrible pants, and rumor has it,

the whole bleeding shindig was a recruitment scheme

for the vicious charge he led against his own 401(k).

JV