I'm standing in the queue for catharsis,
things will feel better soon.
By night we are warmed by the gaslighting
of the news cameras and their booms.
We snack on the occasional ripple:
"She held his hand, pass it on!"
United in grief, each our own brief
word in a famous sad song.
We will get there soon I'm sure,
but between the tears I'm stemming
I see my queue buddy shrinking.
In all our weeping and blinking
I look in his eyes and see reflected, a lemming.
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