You have a bad dream and in it the rich
are being killed, trussed up in bales
of bones. Looking at your clothes (are you
raggedy enough to spare?) you want

to run but can’t. Up close the bales
of them are flesh-flagged, bloody:
punishment too much enough for having
stylish curve on sandal heel and cut flowers.

They just want somebody to kill.
The city is burning, and even the truly poor
are running, but you are standing still.