Phones cut. The gun jams.

Now he stands in his ten foot hall with three of 'em

One bound to radiator also two wife and three his girlfriend

The two latter scan his fifty-nine pence can of beer in the kitchen

Behind ya he thinks

A mutual glance inherent from their milltown Persian Alabama

Atlanta Albania whatever

Their wisdom confirms friendship

Too dumb shit to do or know

I am hostage

Their young eyes say

Jet-lag

Wreck

Arrogant

Big lad

He brought home yank

Their triptych mentality explodes

He laughs

Poet reads out quatrain