3080. THE WHITE PAINT MARKER

THE WHITE PAINT MARKER

A man was putting down white lines like
a child puts down white lies - voracious
by appetite and spread everywhere. All
that work for one piece of candy. Up above
the heads of the people, I saw a single
low-flying hawk ferociously swooping,
intent in a gaze steered from fury : pity
the end of that flight's line, I did. How
harsh it must be to have to live that way.
-
I am out of the line of fire, and I am
not some mad bird's prey. I am walking,
instead, a land full of lines, going this way
and that without end. From on high, that
too must look like a crazed man's deadly
scribble : touched by fury, touched by
fire, strange white lines all over the land.
-
Shake hands, my friend, with the person
who walks the land. Shake hands, my
friend, with the white paint marker,
the man with the wand, the
Johnny-Come-Lately of the
Johnny Appleseed Brigade.