Sunday Charge

This poem is old-ish -- a few months. Spring '08 I guess.

We are marching bedraggled

across the city

Her dirty boots

My messy hair

This is Sunday

for the ragged

The unprepared

We are storming scattered

out of alleys

Stealth bomb cell phones

on their floors

To the boats!
We cry, and stagger home

to prop the lid

and bolt the door

We are fearless

in the morning

clogging transit

stopping cars

We’ve naught to lose

We’ve lost it all

in couch cushions

and bars

We are making swift manoeuvres

undercover

on the sly

This is Sunday,

weary operatives,

you fabulous untied