The soup from the sky
filled the boats, the streets, the homes.
The people, at first, were first
to rejoice. Cracked hands flexed
upping up every drop. Mouths, open in little ozones,
gulped down the soupdrops; people bought the soupdrops;
eyes ears callouses made ridges
for the soupdrops as they plopped, hot,
(yet touchable, at first, so
small, so laodicean, stirred bouillon from the ocean)
to the cobblestone bones
matting the dry dry ground. Blue
grains of distilled maelstrom turning brown.
Then green, gray, then slaughterhoused, then
angry on the streets, choking the drainpipes.
Sucking the currents of vibrancy stolen
from the soups of other lands. The soupdrops,
now a swirling-steady hive of bonescarspeoplebuildings
without a bowl,
continued sucking, at last,
up the cache, the dreams,
the heads of the people: none innocent,
none not, all ending.
Sounds of toxicity churned like the washing
of the dying.
The President of the souped-up globulation
stood and looked about his nation.
He tipped over his bowler hat
for more soup.