Gusts of rain outside
Almost sleet
A smart-ass populated pub right next to ground zero
All idiots with ringing ears watch a breath drain away at the heels of a blast
Only a coal of a cigarette alive, twitching outside the bloody window
Outside, where diesels cry their cold

Inside a million warm homes, football on channel two
Death feast on channel one, watched as

It were a ballgame
Elsewhere, there is someone holding a medal and blithering two thousand words a minute about guilt
A sort of threat that one too
Which is why his room is soft and round
Which ones of those words, dreams, ghosts are his?
Waiting endless hours for the call, for a voice that would say how the bullet meant for the bird had wandered away
But no

Should his illness spread in the public, things could get serious
Machines might not work if the right buttons are not pushed