In my dream, we live in
fear of zombies. They can
come from anywhere—
the swamp, Main Street,
an eerily brief alleyway.
I ask two boys if I can lay
my bedroll next to theirs.
I don’t want to sleep alone.
They say I can. I do.

Later, awake, at Walmart,
I’m in a long line that forms
at Customer Service when
one of the department’s
two trained clerks goes to
the bank to refill the register.
Now I’m the zombie.


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