The dam burst – yet again! –
and down they went,
victims and vegetables
and out came gushing blood
flooding tiles of cracked linoleum,
this morning mopped clean.
Their skins cracked open,
they groan in despair,
yet their blood is still flooding
the deli and its stairs,
down and down again
straight into hell.
They all bled red with
not even a prayer,
for what good would that do
but repeat ad nauseum
like twelve on a clock repeats
with hardly a pause.
The farmers? They grow
just like exiles build
again and again without guarantee
of a purchaser
or a market of buyers
or that peace will ever come—
or that they can trust their neighbors.
