Poem #27: Zombies or Blame It on the Automatic Brain

6 a.m., NPR in the background, navigating
the route I follow each morning. My hands drive,
the way fingers recall a lock’s combination without
contemplating numbers, or a telephone number
dialed for years, or the curves and arches of the body
of a mate. The NPR bit drones on about how people
possess an automatic brain—a part of the brain
that would choose cake over fruit if a person
under duress, such as having to hold a 7-digit code
in mind, is suddenly asked to choose between
a piece of chocolate cake or a bowl of fruit.
My mind skips to my day’s lessons. Did I plan
sufficiently for first period, did I make copies,
will the Internet go down during that clip?
The 31 poems in 31 days challenge pops into my mind.
How will I produce poem #27 today? I’m poem tired,
poem spent, poemed out. My mind trolls for a topic,
taking in all I drive past—barren trees, icy cars, lightless
houses, the bus stop, where people fully dressed stand
in total darkness, not facing each other. Naturally,
I decide they must be zombies. My poem will be about
zombies, of course. Not about my marriage, my children,
or teaching. I choose zombies. Who else would be outside
in 27 degrees? Zombies waiting for a zombie bus driver
to come and cart them to where zombies work, where
they will fall in step with other zombies in halls
and onto the elevator and ride up to their zombie cubicles,
until their chipper boss arrives decidedly late
with coffee steaming and a smile on his ridiculously awake
face. He’ll sing out, “Good morning, Vietnam!” And—
as if on cue—the zombies will roll their bloodshot eyes,
lick their cracked white lips, raise their arms
to the zombie stance, and slowly, oh so slowly
amble toward the warm-blooded human being.