Zero Twenty

This is the first draft of this poem.

Six thirteen point ninety six,

Three sixty two point two nine,

or images emblazoned with Fabio

embracing yet another young ingénue.

Rows of dusty shelves, stacked high with

the countless outpourings of the living and the dead.

The pages of these birthed infants are dry and rough

covered with printed words, from top to bottom.

The aisles, silent as a mausoleum

interrupted only for a moment by a shrill shriek

by an infant or from the scanners

those guardians of all that come and go.

The few who wander through the aisles

look up and down as if on a hunt,

finding at last some abandoned creature

and cradling it as they seek another.

All implicitly understand the rules here,

only the very young violate the silence

and without asking, everyone knows

they need their card to take a creature home.

Author's Note

This is the first draft, so I'd really appreciate any feedback on sound, meaning, structure, whatever you can think of as relevant or important to you as a reader. Constructive criticism is appreciated ALOT, flat-out whining about the time you wasted reading this is not. Thank you ahead of time for those of you who write thoughtful reviews.