As I force myself toward pleasure, 
and I love this November life,
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
through the tunnels,
over the wind-swept bridges,
through the sedentary, school-less,
villages of the retired rich
into the heart of my enemies
where hostile witnesses abound
skilled at shaking fists, digging up dirt
spitting out venom and being richly contemptible.
Wizened faces study bank statements, share certificates,
land deeds, squirreled away cash, pensions
unearned entitlements of all manner and conditions
whilst drooling over the babies of the young
in blatantly false displays of camaraderie,
whilst whistling the Horst Wessel Lieb.