By William Miller
The world is filled with them.
They file through the streets and into
our courtyards. Well-dressed, respectful,
they ask leading questions, smile politely
and walk away.
Who are they and why do we
suffer them? Hardly princes,
mad or not, we give up our secrets
or lie outright, send them
on their way.
Someone is collecting a file on us,
grist for a data bank, an all-knowing
intelligence in the blue ether.
They can only plot our demise,
total destruction. Their questions
are simple tools in a mad
King’s hands. Something is rotten
in the state of everywhere
and all of us will stand for judgement.
in front of a review board,
our files opened and reviewed
with bureaucratic heartlessness,
a final assessment typed and filed away.
Paranoids, even paranoids,
have real enemies.
William Miller’s ninth collection of poetry, Under Cheaha, is forthcoming from Shanti Arts Press in 2025. His poems have appeared in many journals, including The Penn Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
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