The Boys from 451

While clutching the book I read before bed,

I hear the pounding of boots echo.

Awaking to the smell of kerosene,

fear cripples me.

Because I know what the firemen come to take.

My Books for the fire,

and me for the the needle.

The building though is safe,

because fire is the one thing we all still see

Maybe more stimulus is need

or maybe there are still too many unconnected like me.

Pretending that we too stare at screens that,

provide little story and too many screams.

Pretending that we too enjoy the steady stream of

half-thoughts, scripted reality, and self-created drama.

Saying Hello with our thumbs,

while swallowing this nonsense with a single gulp.

But secretly we rebel,

reading Shakespeare, Hemingway, Angelou, and Shelly.

Never fear,

we mean no harm.

We just crave something beyond what is offered,

something beyond the stimulus.

We want to think and argue with meaning.

Sometimes we gather,

huddled in basements.

Telling tales about a time,

when people actually talked to the person next line.

That was my mistake.

I couldn't help myself,

I just had to try it.

But the moment I heard myself “Hello”,

I knew the boys for 451 would come.