The Dociles

 by Brett Rutherford

It was almost as if
they had been raised
among animals. Grunts
and nods, a finger pointed
toward an open mouth
requiring nourishment,

shivers and groans,
monosyllabic shouts
of want or warning
seem all they possess.

They walk among us,
not Homo habilis,
not Sapiens, not even
Neanderthal. Vessels
to fill with anything
the masters wish.

They go where ordered.
They pour themselves
into hats and uniforms.
If told to push, they push.
If given an axe or knife,
they figure out its use.

Flash a white light
into their dull eyes
and they stop and wait
for further orders,
whom to hate, and whom
to strike or kill.

No need for robots
or costly programs
apt to rebel or fail.
The Dociles beget
their own copies:
millions are here,
and millions more to come.

In the time ahead,
when the earth no longer
sustains the human horde
the masters will no longer
require their services
or yearn for their virgin daughters.

They all have guns. Turn one
against another and it is done.
The call will go
through TV antenna
to every trailer park.

As no one regrets
the crushed lantern fly,
none will miss them, either.