Mind's been robbed.
You can see
where they broke the lock,
the splintering
around the brass knob.
I cannot finish a thought
without getting up
to get a tissue.
I cough deep,
booting out crud.
The real issues
are worming
their way out
of my blissfully
swiss-style mind.
I have not paid
any attention to
the trial of Dhozkhar
Tsarnaev this week.
I have not paid
any government loans
and who knows if I will.
When I open my eyes,
I want it all gone.
To think myself human,
one among the crowd,
as you are one of the crowd,
the peaceful, good crowd.
I admit I want him dead.
My own trial
is being
trampled underfoot.
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