by grimbeau

beseiged by famine
forgave the greedy eyes
of old aquaintances
they had not long to go
Optic knew
this was no time for
compromise or pity
he pressed on to the fish shop
under mackerel skies
noticing the toothmarks

on the grassy knolls
Optic felt the tremble

of distant puffing guns
They were nothing but savages
Optic stopped to pick a lemon
for the vinaigrette
from the Colonel’s orchard
He had no need of them any more.