The shades pulled low
in the Rundown.
Janitor scrubbing the towers
top to bottom.
Disinfecting seats of power
and of defecation.
Wiping receivers of oily prints.
Evikt imagined them in the daylight;
the drones with their prints all over
the scene of the crimes,
on keyboards and dry-erase porn;
what she called the mailroom stockade
of office supply store consumables.
Evikt imagined them there with shit
in their bowels and seafoam on their tongues,
in cornflower blue button-downs,
in whale-shit ambergris perfumed hose.
In full flagrante theft. In ski masks
and at egos.
Evikt saw them as criminals whose
crimes have not yet been written and
whose sentences are last year’s library books
discovered in a trash bag in the back
of the bus after the deputies moved her out…
Lazy-Janitor-Failed-MFA-Candidate spied in the night
Evikt as she maneuvered on a scaffold ladder
with her custom bandolero racked with aerosol cans of color
to paint her thoughts across the wall
instead of banging her head against it.
To the monsters who stole the daylight,
each mural her personal eviction notice.