Literary Vandals

By Marty Shambles

in my dreams i’m still in
jfk airport, waiting in long lines
and being yelled at by little
napoleonic fucks who let the
slightest bit of power overtake
their humanity. in the end
i am not the king of anything.
i am another schmuck with a fever,
breathing my unwashed breath into
my mask, with hungry eyes and a
heart with a genetic expiration date.
it’s always 6am here
and i am always almost late for
my flight. i make the flight and
sweat and cough for four hours,
with the plane aloft on curses alone.