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A
tank moves out with that rat-a-tat-tat that Bicycle cards make
when kids stick 'em
in their spokes;
Whirr, whirr...
Private
Amina shoves her hair under her helmet;
A salty wash sponges over her steely gaze;
Blink, blink...
There goes
the neighborhood! Goodbye privilege! From boot camp to Boot Hill, the drill is the same; Hup, hup... The armies of one are embedded girl scouts; Their names, their ranks, their televised horrors; Ho hum... Overexposure ought to slow the unflappable flags; Instead, it fills the schoolyards with paper-powered tanks; Ka-ching... |
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