Poem 25. Reasonable Accomodation

She's walking on St. Catherine street,

wearing the full enchilada,

A black ghost among us,

No skin feels the air except for what breaches at the eye slit.

She's looking at you, studying you,

squinting in there, with two hateful eyes,

judging your shamelss clothing, your disrespect, your ignorance of

Allah,

feeling sorry for your situation because if you knew better,

you'd be more like her.

You can hear her muttering about the hateful, Bush lovers.

Walking around just so she can confirm just how depraved and desparate you are,

thinking about how she'd like to kill the vermin around her,

and you are somewhere lower than rat, but perhaps above Jew.

She'd take the caraving knife she keeps at home to

cut lamb, and filet your muscles from your bone,

and throw you to a dog, so it can crack your bones, and suck the marrow.

She's like to drown your children in the river,

put them in a sack like unwanted kittens,

with a brick, as they bubble below the surface, lungs bursting with water.

That's what she's thinking,

she's thinking the world has too many of them,

and it'd be so much easier if they just killed you all.

You'd be better off anyway,

out of your misery.

Or maybe she's thinking about whether she has a lemon in the fridge and if her children did their homework.