Trap Door Out of the War
While higher-ups gave the suspect a spirited drubbing,
the guard stood just without, encroached upon
by a nebulae of false assassins.
Flailing until a handled door lay exposed,
he tugged it open, entering an under-earth oasis
of tropical cocktails, hula girls, a certified financial advisor
with fingers pressed together in a smart-seeming way.
Vibrant drinks clogged the soldier’s thoughts,
leaving behind a ghost-colored mustache.
Letters of endorsement reached him by certified mail
and he wondered what fate he was being commended for.
The hula girls drifted around with such absent-minded
dexterity they often were confused for weather.
The war prattled on somewhere upstairs.
Wristwatches were being synchronized in far peninsulas of the earth
and eighteen different people, at that very moment,
were voicing displeasure over the spearfish flambé.