an anarchy symbol left to inspire
behind the post office, plus
the kneejerk graffiti of yet another
twintower conspiracy.
here, the creeping vine
of disgruntled postal workers
finds an outlet with spray paint.
he leans back, incendiary against
that anarchy wall, puffing twigs
of menthols, immune to timeclocks
and passing car exhales.
he leans back here, postal bag
slung lazily from a gallow arm,
pondering another 9-11 conspiracy,
taking the same break
every single day, at the same time
with the same intention
to resist
the utility of terror.
