even when it’s noon. Indigo and rust
skies, barely any ash spewing above
Mount Doom. I give in to not sleeping,
some combination of jetlag and a full
moon. Meet a friend for a meal downtown
where they cater to nocturns and
political zombies. Then stroll through
open barricades to the fences surrounding
important buildings where heads of state
sleep on tufted pillows full of dragon feathers.
An old man blares anthems from shuttered
nations on a black boom box. He seems to be
taking requests from passersby. One lost
Song of Middle Earth gives way to the next.
Onlookers mingle dressed in striped summer
seersucker, pose for pictures beneath handmade
protest signs. It’s easy to spot the elves
with their pointy ears. They no longer worry
about blending in with humans. Someone
in a Frodo mask offers free hugs. Suddenly orcs
bark orders on bullhorns to clear the area. Sulfur
scents rise as we scurry to the last open exit.
–
Sarah Laskin is a poet and creator-artist. Her work has appeared in Painted Pebble Lit Mag and was nominated for Best of the Net. She works in wildlife conservation and lives in Washington, DC, with a fabulous dog.