Heavenly Orbits Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Take me to an empty cemetery
where I can peacefully boycott death
and wave the other way, so I can say
I'm enthralled with life —
the alarm at five thirty, a siren,
and the chip paper full of scraps
reporting our moral collapse.

But what am I talking about?
The cemeteries are full to capacity.
The dead are wailing on the benches, waiting to enter,
drinking, taking ketamine
to sedate themselves,
only to feel braver.

Take me to a penitentiary, a penny arcade
and show me a good time,
decades of dust and grime without progress,
and I'll slowly lose my mind.
I'll ask you to be gentle, understanding with teeth.

Look, can I scrounge another cigarette,
or roll one from the pickings on the ground?
I'm scaling the heights of apathy
with the pigeons on the ground
that have declined heavenly orbits,
the soaring over rooftops, cemeteries, prison walls.