anniversary

 When my friend posted all she thought about on Monday was food, I did not know what to say. It was a short story. Would weed do anything for my condition? Would a boiled chicken help hers? Should the government deliver chickens to all? Were there any chickens left? Out west, people were dumping their muddy belongings into skips. Over the bridge, families were viewing their drowned relatives in the morgue. Politicians were nodding on television, casting blame on the radio. I was chewing nicotine, waiting for the chop. And I’m in so deep you know I’m such a fool for you was lingering on the speakers. We had survived the five weeks since Xmas, just. The puppies had doubled in size and were not biting so much. Too late to take them back. I thought the mayor was doing the best he could. His bumbling was refreshing. If it is bad here, what is it like further north in the Pacific? If there are fewer eggs, does that mean there are fewer chickens? Did people really comprehend people had died on Friday and that my beautiful friend did not have anything to eat?