The Traitor
No crummy Bastille this
house arrest.
Just you behind the ear.
I’m mixing
myself a Slashed Mattress.
Then shapes climb stairs
and find my room.
See this card?
Yes.
Pour me an election, airbag.
To the nation now playing
at the crossroad where
all the lonely people fry—
it is a red life—but
not every boy wants
to be a marine.