Sorehead

I was arrested because of that internal memo,

and ended up in a cell, then I was told to sit

with the police and the local bigwigs.

In the hushed and fast darkening room they said

someone—someone—had reduced the safety margin

on the airport risk factor, and I got the blame.

The sky that day was a pale, clear blue, but

that was happening outside, and far away.

The cop on duty would not open the tomb

of the deported—sorry, departed—and as usual

he had a story. Every movie, he said, depends

on a script, and the narrative grows out of

market research: a set of standard deviations. Art?

What would they know? Open the tomb, and let me in.