Ingrates

TRYST, two lover’s last on outbreak’s eve, they soon entombed.
MOUND, for burial of the city’s dead arriving too fast for single graves.
SPREE of death eventually births antidote’s invention.
SERUM!—One generation would have danced at its arrival. This one scoffs.

Tyranny of Clocks

CLOCK doles time, portioned out in ticks, serves as
BOSSY metronome overtakes all time’s tempo,
LIEGE lord of a time-bound race, counts each subtracted second.
BLOCK ticks! Breathe—seize back time’s unmeasured moments.

Apocalypsis

LOWER down, in Johnstown, all seems calm.
UNION is going on 113, war survived, injustice re-submerged;
PARTY, faction, a steady equilibrium of peace?
FLOOD bursts as a sign; submerged may see the light, bad structures can fall.

The Rhythm

SCOPE of poem? Uncertain, but not to create cliché.
BLOKE, yes. Bohemian, yes. Musician, yes.
ROACH—no. So, what’s he high on? Life? This poem does not know.
BONGO? It’s the focus here: the rhythm’s about to start.