Flee to the attic, meet Anne Frank, scrawl your diary
day by day or minute by minute with a marker in hand
marking the peeling wallpaper.
18 is the magical slope (if you’re into math).
Meanwhile, theater balconies terrorize the back of our heads.
Bullets push for center stage
“Look at me! Stop your folly.
Here I am. Look at me.
Look at my
hot metal skin
through red, white and blue
Flee to the attic, I will not follow
there are no eyes to witness
Hand-held hearts, unpinned and thrown
into faces – above the cellar.
How can I sit here in my bathrobe
watching funny TV
while the City of Lights is snuffed by grenades,
gun powder, bombs?
An entrepreneur enters the Shark Tank,
a terrorist targets a cafe.
Death tolls rise.
A soccer game hears booms (just the ball, right?)
Stitch the borders, close the Metro.
No one gets out alive.
“This is Hell.”