At the Holland Tunnel

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


filling the air with an animal scent.