Timothy Brennan

At the command,
the chosen real estate will be sealed off
by a serpentine column of guardians
descending from hand-painted clouds.  

Ejected families will be overwrought
by their sudden reversal,
and forced to articulate new horizons,
to embrace a new vision,
on which their futures will depend. 

It would take a kind and enormous mother
to calm all the night-screams,
unplug the alarms and replace the light fixtures
of this sultry gaudy interior.  

Guardians stand close, linking arms,
drinking heavily on the sly.  

While in the library, 
a quarantined student seeks words 
to use that won’t shatter 
when the door is forced. 

But they do when it is,
and the singer beneath the great dome 
begins “My Wild Irish Rose” 
in Russian, with lips like ancient barnacles 
and submarine colored skin.