the numbers crunchers

in a world where names are numbers
in a box left on a shelf
there was a single, lonely vestige
of his former self
he mattered once, he made a dent
his singing voice was heaven-sent
he influenced the younger ones
he mesmerized the old
he fought a war within and found
his stuff tossed in the coldnumbers
harsh rainy streets,
all his worldly goods
all but this one relic  here
too small to recall
and that was all
that would bring him back
to who he was
before the numbers crunchers landed
and everything went black.

the numbers crunchers came in vans
invaded every entry
they audited and found some fault
and locked away the gentry,
their staff & friends & family,
their neighbors, pets & strangers
they introduced a world of new
and unexpected dangers
they leased a flat on west 19th
they came and went unfettered
and not until each man & child
was written in their record
and stacked into a tiny slot
and organized just so
did they at last complete their task
and did they finally go.

his numbered self had gotten thin
from lack of good nutrition
his bones and muscles had acquired
a squash-like sponge condition
that shrunk him, smashed him
waffle-thin and so with just a squat
he found a way to slide right through
his predetermined slot.
he made his way down empty streets
back to his last remembrance
the only thought that kept him going,
that of hungry vengeance,
which thought abandoned him at once
the moment he got home
and found the shelf and found the box
and found this little poem.

© 2015 kStan(ly) Lanning
befitting of the Daily prompt – empty
and the Daily prompt – squat

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