This is before surveillance cameras, before
you could steer a CGI theropod killing machine
of the Cretaceous Period—Tyrannosaurus rex—
through cyber-landscape Brooklyn. Man walks in,
disappears from memory and reliable eyewitnesses;
is declared D-E-A-D after the usual number of years
and allowed to transmogrify into whispered footnote.
Maybe the guy fed SHOOT the MOTHER-IN-LAW
with Home Sweet Home gilded portraiture, aiming
at an arm-target on a circling-a-couch housedress,
a spit curled best-guesstimate of All We Despise.
Maybe he DING-DINGed it until he understood
how unfathomable the collapse and walked
into the remnant night. Misplaced forever.
Maybe he raised a white flag of surrender.
Maybe mystery became him in that place:
one noisy reversal crowded into another,
a red-red EXIT sign blazed and he step-
stepped as if testifying to what he saw
and the small deaths before the last.