A creeping meanness claws across the decade,
no longer content to linger
at the margins,
teeth gnawing the hairline supports
that once held courtesy in place.
Soft civility drowns—
its gentle pleas severed
against the razor-brink of thin bluster,
each utterance a bright blade
winking beneath the footlights.
Palm-sized portals grant absolution—
thumb-swiped loops spinning
like small, devouring storms.
A sweetness laced in venom
nourishes hollow appetites.
Not my problem—
the call rebounds
through the hollow chambers of power,
where anger curdles under polished lids,
served in delicate portions
to tongues eager for the new flavor of spite.
This novel vintage pours freely,
its aftertaste both repulsive
and strangely comforting,
as we sip
and pretend not to notice.
The Truth About Tigers 