but I could not find it.
The group grew impatient, irritated,
began chucking stuff at an effigy of the facilitator.
"This is your fault," said an old woman,
waving knitting needles meaningfully at us.
We fell upon her, reading favorite passages
from the handbook to her in Portuguese.
There was a trust exercise.
We pitched each other out the upper windows
until only a few weaklings were left.
"It is finished," we said, and assumed our roles.
Back at work on Monday, we sprouted feathers
from our backs and began assembling in groups.
"The song of my people," you said,
and began barking like an asthmatic.
Next weekend, paintball
to mortify the flesh,
exalt the soul,
and occupy us as smoke rises over the city.
_______
I am starting my April poem-a-day now, because the voices told me to.