He turns his head
expectantly
expecting her not to reach the
door--for the door--of
other voices & lines
all mashed and troubled
and fed eggs bacon
sausage bread pancakes
toast Easter post-church,
warped through concrete &
glass lenses to the outside--blockade--
who's thinking?--where
does all this death go?--
into that ground he knows--&
gone to dream-fields & memory lanes,
but no worries,
time to pay the damn check &
bury the bodies.
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