...a perfect time to plan someone's demise.

The Word

Suits smoothed, creased,
clean shirts glaring in hot sun.
Hat brims brushed clean
denying dirty souls.
Men who rule
wash their hands
after a job.
Always to meet at dusk,
a perfect time
to plan someone's demise.
A grunt, a nod,
obscured by ocean waves
pounding out intentions
bigger than life.
The word is given.

Copyright 2007 Jo Janoski, Poet Laureate of Pennsylvania™ 2007

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