A poem — “Crap, crap,” I shout,
“My boots fell off during the breakout!”
“Fuck them, dude — it’s a bailout!”
“No I gotta go back,
Or else my feet’ll be splintered!”
“Out, out,” Peter says, “Get you new ones
When we come about!”
Come about? Fire, dust,
And rubble thrush about!
I wish I could scream at them,
Have them give us…