The mob cries animated satisfaction
snickered from incarcerated victims.
Sure, some almost belong there,
the criminals with short vision and arms
and the long armed ones with tin badges and skeleton keys.
“Two men enter, one man leaves.”
Yet outside, two before the vaulted edifice,
this bank of force, unrolling its magic parchment
of powerfully independent words,
shallow as a vain Glory field.
“Speak, friend, and enter.”
“Friend,” one speaks.
The door creaks open
to the well-toned,
Sometime after sorrow,
the other leaves his last salute :