Vaccine

Checkpoint lines
were longer with even
less people.
He was supposed to come
earlier after
three weeks of waits.

Inexcusable.
He was responsible
for timing.

They process you anyway,
but your brand has been
sitting out.
This whole lukewarm time.
Going sour.

He anticipates the
dose of memories.
Solidifying the weeks,
the months, the years before.
And wonders if they
will be laced with poison.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

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