Brakes failing, a crash,
I heard it from my IKEA living room,
my Snörk.
There were people on the street,
crowding around the wreck.
The nuclear family in flames,
trapped in their Japanese import,
trapped by the overbearing crowd.
No room,
There’s no room to escape,
They roast.
Fascination towards violence,
towards disaster,
no one rushes to save them,
no one calls for help.
Don't want to get their hands dirty.
They watch the show,
pyrotechnics, Friday night.
Forgot the popcorn.
And they just watch the smoke
mushroom skyward.
We're all the same, really,
except they're out there,
and I'm in here, by the window,
watching.
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