The road is rutted sand
through scrubby jack pines,
sucking clay that weights
the feet, sunstruck tar
that reaches after every
step, or merciless concrete.
No matter, they must run,
zigzagging crazily as they can,
the bullets raising holes
behind them. They can
tuck and roll
into any ditch they please –
one plane barrels over
but another one is always there
to raise them up running
again on their deadened
legs, lips grabbing for
shreds of air, never
enough, never enough air.
Scraps of scenery flare
in the corners of their eyes,
extinguished before they can think
what they are, whether hands
held out from refuge
or claws extended to
trip their desperate knees.
Their view is black
from lack of breath
and in the black clouds
silver specks swim.
Such flight as this
is for soldiers, not
for these aged, shaken,
flabby limbs, these exhausted
hearts. They run
out of the theatre
of endless war, out
of this dream,
into the streets
where the strafing
starts again, and they
can run some more
The Poor Capitalists Go to the Movies
