SHE TAKES big headphones to the street. 8AM. Kate Smith, God Bless America, two hundred days with it looped as she walks to work, and no incident. A crucifix.
No skirt here. Natural law, not law.
2 BOYS CROUCHED ON THE STOOP OF A DELI. SHE MUTES KATE TO HEAR THEIR EUNUCH CHIRPS.
Cesario, Ganymeyde, she names these boys, but she's the girl/boy. 1
Soldiers with stubbed M4s size her up. 2
A bug hotel, and thin men, preternaturally aged, wave willowy spidery hands at her. 3
Southbound hulks turn for her. 4
She makes every light, never turns her head. North.
Her tunnel vision? No waiver.
Her world is full of men. Half a million people left in the skillet of Manhattan. One hundred thousand state workers. Of that twenty thousand, like her, hack media for the government; she's called junior coordinator for a Unified Democrat Party. The rest keep the computers running. Military bodyguards state work, to apprehend the VDCs - the bugs, voluntary dislocated citizens, island people. Those who stayed. When they're caught, they're shipped, but they have a lot of hide in them. And blocks yet to squat in.
0 comments:
Post a Comment