From True Stories by Margaret Atwood
The man walks on the southern beach
with sunglasses and a casual shirt
and two beautiful women.
He’s a maker of machines
for pulling out toenails,
sending electric shocks
through brains or genitals.
He doesn’t test or witness,
he only sells. My dear lady,
he says, You don’t know
those people. There’s nothing
else they understand. What could I do?
she said. Why was he at that party?
[excerpt] THE ARREST OF THE STOCKBROKER
Then suddenly you’re in there,
in this mistake, this stage, this box,
this war grinding across
your body. You can’t believe it.