POEM: A Zombie’s Dilemma



I ambled out the gate, down the street, and noticed:

  • Everyone was going my way.
  • Everyone was on foot.


Well, you can imagine what I thought,

I’ve fallen in with a zombie horde!


But, how to check?

Somehow asking,

“What is your stance on raw brain?”

seemed awkward.


So I concluded that I was—unquestionably—among zombies.


A sadness followed.

Couldn’t they smell that my brains were fresh, disease-free, and everything a Zombie finds delicious?

Did they know something that I didn’t?

Had my brain gone bad without my knowing?

And how could one ever know whether the thing one knows with is sour?


The sadness was short-lived.

A dilemma followed.

For I saw a man walking toward me, against the horde’s flow.

If I didn’t club him in head and try to eat his brain—given his clear unhorde-like behavior–would the horde realize that I was an imposter?


If I did… Well, I would be worse than Tom Hanks trying to get into that coconut in “Cast Away.”

Quite frankly, I had no idea how to get to the brains.

Should that be something I should know?

A piece of common knowledge I’d lost when my brain curdled?


But the horde didn’t descend on the man.


So I concluded it was–unquestionably–a defective zombie horde.


And I went about my day.

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