Come

They’re coming.
We don’t know when
But soon.
From where the sun sets
The town still clicks dimmer
Switches like falling dominoes
They’re coming.
My arm sore from scrawling
Fingers numb from typing
Printers dry from printing
Posters line the lampposts
Lock the doors,
Lock away your children
We search the edge of the horizon
Find nothing but a cold-climate
Driven to the desert front-line
Soldiers of electric violence
Selves humming in unison
Quiet motors, faint in odour
The sensors detect no advance
We await their arrival
Huddled in silence