WHEN THE FINGERS
FALL FROM THE HAND
The Devil lives on Easy Street, and I want
out of here. People talk of surface gems,
wincing metaphorically while searching
out supplies. These dead? Pile them, please
up on the pyre nearby and we will light it
later. Ventilator, alligator.
-
Carmine the sainted butcher has fallen
to the plague, again. His sister Annalisa
will soon follow. Perhaps it's payback for
selling meat? Payback? No one ever
thinks of that.
-
The kid at the gas station was standing
at my window. He wears a tattoo of
Neptune's spike long his lower lip, with
a stud of silver at its top. To end it all
he has a blue teardrop up alongside his
eye. I too understand; we all cry.
-
There's nothing more to ask about.
We exchange our information about how
things are going. He says people have
been frantic. I smile back, knowing.
-
I want to say, 'Have you too met the
moment, the tendency to doubt, the man
with forty fingers, that Devil, the monster
underneath all things. He's the one who
put the fire in the gasoline, you know.
Now I must be going...'
-
See you later, alligator.
No comments:
Post a Comment