Quick Exit

All the foes exit in bunches,/savvy heads mill around in crowds;/those who never gave one jot./As they leave in the predawn/they shout and brush off rain./ I stare out the window,at comrades-in-arms,/ framed by inanimate glass./Their harm comes from blue films of Eden/blue films unreeling which way in the air./ I’m left with only street shoes/my bare feet rest on a sawdust floor./I know why they’re angry. They ran out of money.

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