I'm so tired of disappointed men
who sit in cabins pecking
invectives on archaic Underwoods.
Don't even think of knocking
on a Unabomber's door, offering
tuna casserole or chicken pot pie.
These guys feed on themselves.
They love their own thin blood
and overactive spleen,
and they have no qualms about
sticking a stamp, even a pretty one,
yellow roses or steamboats,
to a letter bomb,
blow up you or me
or plain old "occupant" by accident.
Hey, to a Unabomber guy
we're black type, white space,
a flat sheet of onionskin,
and with their little metal fists,
they pound, pound,
pound in the dim light.
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