Dystopian Parades
by Odin Roark

5th Avenue unresplendent.

Refracted in shattered store windows,
street gratings glisten with shell casings.
Skyscraper canyons,
now but urban stubble
belch incessant rancidity.

Tattered American flags waving,
old and young in black
stagger up the avenue listlessly.
Casualties slump in wheelchairs,
leading the way for those on crutches,
those leaning on others.

Marching band,
their instruments swaying
like elephant trunks in mourning,
playing never a note.

Amidst rows of unsmiling children
crowds remain mute

Why the parade?

What’s the commemoration?

Hot dog vendor
giving boiled wieners
to stray dogs
mutters
“Just the end of another war.”

With toothless smile
and raised limp wiener to the sky,
he nods down the avenue
“No worry, Cap’n. ‘Nother round of battles
comin’ right up…comin’ right up.”