by Nick Gisburne
Committed, forced beyond her fear, she leaps,
And pulls her battered body through the pipe.
Unseen by any secondary sweeps,
She binds a ragged cut, another stripe.
The slurry in the drainage duct is black.
She smears it, thick, repulsive, on her face.
With nothing but destruction at her back,
She pings her probe, and moves towards the trace.
The tracker map is patchy, incomplete,
But freakish fortune, bloody luck, prevails.
Impossibly, the presidential suite
Is five more feet above. No flaws. No fails.
She calibrates the bomb to make the hit,
To blast him when the bastard takes a shit.
