There was a bunch of folks typecast for

a forthcoming wave of salvation.

Off a main road, crawling on their hands

& knees at the outskirts of a forest.

Spangled like descaled fish in snapping

shrubbery on an ungiven Sunday.

Relatable as asking for directions to

somewhere you have no intention of

going.

An excuse for interaction, to ascertain if

there was a need for it.

If the almighty will convince you to go

there through them, a testament to need.

An errant flock did, they all converged at

the outskirts of the forest--sanctimonious

horns honking on high.

As they stumbled to stumble upon one

another, weeding out the Ides of March--

handfuls!

One hundred of them, fled from their

subordinance to a Centurion, free as

toddlers on fire.

An unstoppable meta-whoosy forage.

When the NYPD availed themselves, a

higher up saith: 'What's this, the freakin'

catch & release program--let's go people!'