The cold light of winter filters through dusty windows,
Mixes with the buzzing of fluorescent lights.
I hear the slow shuffle of frayed jackets rustling,
Half-broken chairs straining under the weight
Of half-broken men and women and children, chipped
Tabletops holding like Atlas a world of Styrofoam
Cups and plates, plastic forks and knives,
Warm meals consumed by frigid bodies, minds, souls.
The words are clear, o so clear!
Putrid poetry from a bullhorn,
Justice wrought of iron blindly shaped:
“The threat, the response,
The law…” the General drones,
And the people listen, how they listen!
To his faultless monotone.