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Toro, Tory, name your country,

I’m not here to call you names.

The last train leaves in an hour

unless it bursts into flame.

There’s no room for your kind

says the man next to me.

His eyes stare at the floor—

our shoes are countries.

His boots are Italian,

mine loafers from Spain.

His glare’s Sicilian,

my tongue is in pain.

NATO holds us together,

two birds without feathers.

from Chaos is the New CalmFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Poems Wyn Cooper

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