A
sallow
man in trench coat, collar turned
up, hat's brim turned down, arrived with an empty box of Jell-O torn in half. Served as credentials,
tender blossoms molded and chilled to the
shape of his cause, he rapped on the door and was invited to
the kitchen and handed the
caricature of a nuclear bomb's
lens, envisioned with ears like a clock's
alarm.
Cockroaches scurried behind the cold gas stove,
secreting evidence of the undercover act, an army of ants ferried
transcripts (one word, one ant) to a classified formicary under
the foundation of Washington, D.C., while a fly clung to a greasy
wall, a tiny transmitter planted in his brain.
