Anna Sykora

It’s a lifelike dream
where we run and hide,

and try to win through
to the other side

where we’re loved for ourselves
and shed no tears;

a cozy, engrossing
nest of fears;

a garden maze
where we giggle and weep

or slither on our knees
afraid to sleep;

a labyrinth
of hedges and light

where we struggle up the hill
and out of sight--

to another dream, perhaps,
or just good night...

Our cameras are watching you;
Our software tracks your face,
Which owns but six expressions
(As scientists have proved):

'Sadness, happiness, anger,
Fear, surprise, disgust.'

Smart billboards
Flash you a chocolate bar,
Or maybe an ad for insurance;
We’re still working on 'disgust.'

Pulpi in Purgatorio is a fine Italian dish:
That’s octopus in red-hot sauce, spicy as you wish.    

My Mario’s mama, superstitious, cooks it once a week,
"For garlic cleans the blood," she says; "it keeps you strong and sleek,

And sopratutto it drives any vampiro back to the grave.
They can’t bear the reek of it more than a sharp stave.”

“Mama I love you but that's absurd,” Mario laughing said,
“Nobody believes in Dracula anymore, or the living dead.”

His bean-sized mother drew herself up (she's the stubborn one):

His face putty-white,
His boots coal black,

Till our store goes bust
He keeps coming back

For every item his worms lack.
Yes, Death is a regular customer…