Charlton Heston is alone again

the streets are silent this afternoon,
almost deserted,
the city’s bosom laid bare.

today, madness is on hold,
men at work not rushing
into inevitable decay.

the day is red like a face
talking too much shit
the night before.

the hour is hung over,
a nation deep asleep
behind motel doors.

lazily the apes will rise
one by one, wondering where
the hero has gone.