Hades in the Third Millennium
In the conference hall,
the evidence of the senses
holds no sway.
Death triumphs in the shaven and moisturized faces,
thin like death’s heads or fat like drowning,
reciting that day’s USA TODAY to each other.
Voices fall at the end of sentences,
like an imitation of seriousness,
or the first moment of emotional collapse.
Who sees? Who sees?
By the escalator?
By the fake trees?
They beckon to me.
I must be scarred by something.
But why this?
Down in a basement hall
with no windows,
they start the Powerpoint.