They fill the air with an animal scent,
jostling each other for space
with moos and quacks and anguished grunts,
form, as it were, a soft battalion
as they go to the stalls;
waiting on line, as if like that,
to die at the Holland Tunnel:
the bright eyed
khaki clad murderer
proceeding methodically
from car to car, pouring
his hate via cartridges made in this People’s Republic,
spraying cacophony
with an expressionless click
and a flash of broken glass
into that bloody mass of chance
participants,
filling the air with an animal scent.