PRIDE
is a fixed
bayonet
with which
you
run
screaming toward the enemy’s trenches.
It’s me
ready to shoulder through a pack
of young
muscular Turks
blocking
the sidewalk, Karin’s shivery fingers
in my hand
as she trails a little behind
muttering idiot,
idiot, let’s cross the street.
Too late,
honey, we’re surrounded.
But we
cross the street anyway. It’s almost never too late.
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