The red-tails have reported back
in quadrants 1, 2, and 4. You stare
at the phone. Fingers drum beside
the red button that will release
the rabid ocelots. Better to believe
3 had a drink too many, passed out,
horns atangle, in a Jagermeister haze.
The alternatives too horrifying
to contemplate, yet they creep
like fog on deer hooves, nibble
at the tethers that keep those ocelots
behind their glass domes. On the wall
your katana collection; this, perhaps,
a better option. You don your helmet,
ponder your choice of blade.
