I can hear Union Station pealing,
taking its constitutional in the
green mile mall. The siren has gout.
Speculation rises to the roof of the
Capitol. Liberty then falls, alas.
The ambassador’s ambulance driver
rides the whoopy-whoo for some
arcane reason – cf Dan Brown. I’m
making my own monument to
pole dancing: electric ambivalence.
Wireless hot spots. The Metro’s
early-seventies concrete glows.
Lights flash by the stage. Music’s
a genius. You heard it once; Iíve
been here twice. Donít all sirens
sound exactly the same anyway?
