GRASPING AT SPECIAL EFFECTS

The large and pensive houses
of Pine Street have climbed the hill
to overlook certain taxpayers,
like us, who doubt the worth
of pavement, steel bridges, schools.

The houses purse their doorways
and deny us admittance. Stay home
and write the last checks to adorn
an otherwise paperless world. I thrust
the pen through my heart as if

shish kebabs were on the menu.
You sop up the blood with a towel
and pack my rind in a plastic bag
to leave at the landfill where anyone
might critique my final grimace.

None of this happens except
in a flip of the pen, a moment
of grasping at special effects.
Although the tax collector’s office
smirks within walking distance

we mail the check at the post office
that no longer sports FBI
wanted posters since everyone
has become a wanted criminal
subject to gates, bars, and razor wire.

We walk down Pine Street to dip
our fingers in the icy river.
A few empty cadavers float past.
They wave with lifetimes of habit.
The current is black and oily.

The pen I thrust or didn’t thrust
through my heart is out of ink
so I toss it into the stream
and resolve to avoid all writing
until the last literate person dies.