Arise, Ye Freepers!

Arise Ye Freepers!

And the lone freeper heaves
His prodigous bulk up from
The basement recliner retrieved
From the curb one August Sunday.
It is the Day of Action.

Brushing away the orange residue
Of his last bag of Cheetos, he groans
Lightly in his travail. "To the front!"
He rasps, voice heavy with years
Of smoke and moldy dust.

Girding his ample loins in stained
Camoflage, he treads the stairs, kicking
His mother's cat as he rises. Into the kitchen
He emerges, then into the dim garage to
Arm himself with rusty garden fork.

Passing by the aging, wizened Pacer,
He presses the secret button to the right,
And the door rises, folding on itself, groaning
From lack of care and old rust. He thinks of
The deeds he will do on this day.

He yearns for teabags and the misspelled words
On his banner of stained cardboard. He knows
His message is heavy and urgent. He
Will prevail against the domestic enemy
On this day.

But Hold! The sun is an assault to his
Rheumy eyes. The very air burns his lungs
With faintly-remembered odors. That passing
Car must hold a Watcher, a Traitor. Danger
Is tangible here, and he is alone.

The door unfolds again and brings the
Darkness. Through the door into his
Domain he stalks, kicking his mother's
Cat once more as he passes down
The stairs to plot a new day.

Not on this day will his battle rage.
Not today will he meet his fellows.
No...not today, for it is not prudent
To go out into such danger. No value is
There in such risk.

--MineralMan 2009

This is hugh!!!11!!111