The Age It’s Sensible

It was a time of great suffering and little joy.
We were mesmerized by our own shoes,
And we asked “Who’s there?” of empty rooms.
A fire alarm was always going off,
But none of the residents responded
And instead kept working to better themselves
At the folding tables we all sat at putting together
All-black jigsaw puzzles and endlessly turning
Potholders, which were essential decoration.
A self-help guru was wheeled in and slept
In front of the dry-erase board, and the clock
Always went the wrong way without comment.
There was no telling air from smoke.
Air and smoke were the same as far as we could tell.
I was forever waking up to pillows cleverly
Shaped like a wife, the newspaper on fire
As it landed near the coal shoot where hearing aids
Met to gossip about the end of the world.