The Ride
by John B. Mulligan

    Subway stations flashing past
    like strips of microfilm.

    The spy from the Other country
    would sell you their secrets,
    "But we don't know anything different,"
    he says with a laugh
    and a bad movie accent.

    The man in the yellow jacket
    was beating or hugging his children
    an hour ago,
    and will do so again
    tomorrow.

    In the tunnels sometimes
    the lights go out
    and everyone clenches
    like rows of loose fists.

    The lights return,
    bright as suspicion.
    The conspirators are silent.
    The victims are waiting.






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