The air shrinks, crowds thicken-over–
Emil Bennett is the ant under
the Earth’s palm.
All the bodies are pushing against him.
All the lights are tracking him.
Bennett’s lived here for many years
but now he walks faster home.
The pale man sees him waiting
to cross the street, trails him
but Bennett only moves faster,
just wants to see his room
The pale man has gotten him.
How ’bout this heat? Bennett nods.
Taking the bus? Bennett looks
at the man’s greasy, white face.
Warm breathe. You know the benches
in the park, now they’ve got armrests
in the middle. It’s so the homeless
don’t sleep on them. Emil Bennett
doesn’t say a thing.