by M.P. Powers
Standing in the shade of a palm tree
off Biscayne Blvd., feet planted in the grass,
head perched atop a sandwich
board proclaiming: THE WICKED
SHALL BE TURNED INTO HELL
AND ALL THE NATIONS THAT FORGET
GOD. He mops the sweat off his brow,
his John Bull
roachwhiskers titter
vaguely, his expression perfectly
miserable. "That's right," he shouts,
his eyes finding
a defenseless elderly lady
hunkered in her car, halfway under the steering
wheel. "I'm talkin
to YOU!"
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