Hiv Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Outside, the sky was
a mixture of
sun
and fluffy clouds.
A thin mist was coiled
around
skyscrapers
and,
as she looked out
she smiled at
aunt-like pedestrians
as they scurried
along the
busy street.

Clickety-clack,
the bright yellow tram
running on the
old tracks.
Traffic stopped,
letting the monster pass,
then an entire herd
of Cadillacs, Chevy's
and lower class vehicles
eased forward,
slowly,
pedestrians clung
to the shade
and at precisely
twelve, noon
a bomb she had named
Priscilla Mae,
after the one who had
with such precision
given her that damned HIV
during a wild lesbian night.

She had planted
the contraption herself,
inside the shaft
that connected
the eighty-eighth
with the lower floors.

Her little world,
worked for and deserved,
had stood idly by
and done zilch.
Now they would know
and nothing less
would do,
than
the ultimate,
the punishment that fit
this crime.