Us girlies in our
cots, our beds,
rise at the sound of the
morning gunshot.

half past 8, the blinds
bolted shut like
some sort of gilded
prison

put on these socks
now, o
rubbered and friction
you don't want
hepatitis
now.

the bell jangles, no
that must be the phone and
8 foxes of the den
stand in a
line.

phone home will
you, doktor calls with
your paper cup. run like
you're freed and
ceased.

lukewarm water, O
now is she on Lithium?
nine hundred. the
morning gunshot

fires into the
ceiling speakers,
ringing like the
salvation army.