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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