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

stroking away

at keyboards

at coffee

at margins

at markets

at divorces

at promotions

at betrayals

at bosses

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…

long overdue.

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.

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