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Oct 2010
There is a pounding at the door. Soon it will fly open.
Men in gas masks will flood the hallway.
With shotguns.
You have so much to live for, man, don't do this.
We'll come in if we have to. But we just want to talk.

Your children love you.
God knows why
After the things you have forced them to see.

It's humid and the air is causing the culdesac to shimmer
Just above the road, like we lit the tar on fire.
Gangsters lean on their cars to watch
Your misery unfold.

Helicopters keep breaking my concentration
Glowing eyes from the floor
A collapsed heap of laundry
Rustic

All curled in on herself.
Where did we go wrong?
How did it get to this? How did the police get involved?
Smashing up counter-tops with a golf-club.

The windows are breaking and tear gas starts to rise.
The last thing I taste is formaldehyde
And then steel
And then red life
Flowing out the holes
And the orifices.

Carry the children out.
Give them some air.
Move along.
There's nothing to see here.

How is the wife?
Carry her to the stretcher.
Another day in the life.
Tomorrow will be better.
Ryan Bowdish
Written by
Ryan Bowdish  Seattle, WA
(Seattle, WA)   
684
 
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