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At the foodbank, there is a human wall the blind built
two magpies for joy peck at turkey and silver in tinfoil
oh, how rich the meat is when it is left to hang by butchers in suits.
At the foodbank, there is a woman ripping a wing of white meat and
the left wing breaks as easy as the right but she doesn’t care,
She will not grab at the meat, she is still, yes still womanly.
At the foodbank, there is a tin soldier melting in a ladle
she is remembering Basra and the rich man’s decorations
she is hanging baubles of blood from a tree of shoes she cannot un-see.
At the foodbank, is a human wall of bad hombres from everywhere.
They are saying happy Christmas to the bad hombres serving them,
they are all here but somewhere else trying to find the wishbones.