First thing they do:
they rust
the bright out of you.
Your uniform almost
a tourist’s,
color-corrected
to minimize joy.
You’re rewired, and then
to imagine
you don’t know it,
you dirty bomb, you,
excites them.
A hand raised up
to the ear
mimics boredom.
They are so pleased
to be launched
ahead like this,
so delighted to play
sailor, to lay
groundwork. So charmed
to be met, to get to speak
and speak and wait
for no reply.