Subway stations flashing past
like strips of microfilm.
The spy from the Other country
would sell you their secrets,
"But we don't know anything different,"
he says with a laugh
and a bad movie accent.
The man in the yellow jacket
was beating or hugging his children
an hour ago,
and will do so again
tomorrow.
In the tunnels sometimes
the lights go out
and everyone clenches
like rows of loose fists.
The lights return,
bright as suspicion.
The conspirators are silent.
The victims are waiting.
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