A sharp rap on a marble counter,
a dull thud on a marble floor,
three seconds of silence,
a rush for the door.
Dark shapes pour forth from dark corridors
with heads-up displays and Kevlar armor,
and they'll block all the exits
and then order you to disperse.
What's a person? If not a heat signature?
Blue at the edges,
red at the center,
a cloud that dissolves when enough force is administered.

I don't know anything except whose side I'm on.

Back in the kennels they filled me with protein,
they showed me your picture,
they told me you'd hurt me,
they trained me to bury my teeth
where they'd meet the least fight.
And I thought I was happy to be part of their pack,
to feel that roiling black chitinous mass at my back,
to keep them from harm,
to make straight their path.
But now I see that wildness should have occurred to me
earlier and more frequently. See me
bolt towards the tree line trailing my lead.

I don't know anything except whose side I'm on.

A sharp rap on a marble counter,
a dull thud on a marble floor,
and you know tomorrow you're gonna be sore.
One hand placates, the other digs in —
you can see it rummage around under your skin.
If it finds what it's looking for maybe they'll
let you go home.
But you appreciate the impulse to obscure
when you're trapped between the pitbulls
and the pure:
so many teeth, so many teeth, so many teeth.

I don't know anything except whose side I'm on.