Last night, the murder was postponed, as the assassins
Could not find their knives and blades, or anything with
A sharper edge; all they found were pens with dry nibs and
Broken pencils, which had no use to them, as
They were the ones who destroyed, not built

And, today morning, they will merge themselves in the officer goers
In buses and trains and autos, in private air-conditioned cars, and
They will hover around you, like sycophants around a movie star
And all they want is a blade, any instrument, really, with a sharp
Edge, to drill your head, or to twist your heart, for meaningless pain

At dusk, the assassins will hide behind the neon signs, behind each closed
Window, each bolted door, each shop that dazzle under the florescent
Light; hurry, hide everything with sharp edges, hide everything, hide your
Pen with which you sign your cheques, your fingernails, your molar teeth,
Your prickly ambitions, your sharp desperation, your very existence