Moves among the darkness, hits.
Steps between the bricks. Goes in
silence running off; makes management
of this. A true, grand misalignment.
Three clutterbugs sitting outside the market;
old and wiry, they just stare. Their small
hands hold their personal bags. Not a word.
In containment, Evil lurks. Ships in the
harbor, the Bayonne light, the sluice of
cable from off a bridge. Small cars seem
always passing - filled with Hispanics.
How can that be? And where are we?
I used to live here, where once the La Tourette
mansion stood. Massive infusions of goodwill
and money : together, today, too lethal to stay.