And I would bash my head
Through the air conditioning units
Lining the right side of the sidewalk,
At first-floor height.
And my head would not shatter:
The metal would.
A dented, mangled Fredereich,
The pavement littered with beige shards —
And the pain, the pain would match,
For once, that on the inside,
A blistering homeostasis of black rage
And I might crack free
And I would not pick up the pieces:
Those aggressive triangles
Why manifest? Why mutilate,
When it all could so absolutely