Gray boxes are unwrapped amid
A hapless audience of frozen machines.
As we’re lost in avalanches of veiled dysphoria,
Powder snow stains steely sidewalks red.
The paparazzi flash their black flowers,
So we sport a grin and sit up straight.
It’s what we’re bred for – all we know.
But behind pink, plastic walls rests a frenzied terror.
You’ll read about it tomorrow, I’m sure.