We will be the leather knot that rests
between the ring and middle
fingers on the grip of the handle of the scourge.
Barefoot through every town.
We will be two dozen
strategically placed hairs
on an uncomfortable shirt.
We will be the fingernails that catch
in the follicles and empty them.
We will be the sharpness of the tearing.
We will be the (unseemly, unglamorous,
but we must all sacrifice)
plaque build-up beneath the gnashing
We will lead to heart disease.
We will smash open the walls of the aorta,
we will force our way from the chest
past the ribcage, through the skin,
we will spill out under the breast pocket,
as the body collapses it will spit us into the gutter,
we will run together with the rain
we will be one with the people.
The sewer will gape open beneath us.