Who is it?
Just a lone man over the wrought-iron,
closing his eyes to the whoosh of the tracks,
whistling air through the gaps in his teeth.
What’s he worried about?
You wonder, considering disturbing possibilities,
a biker gang broke into his house, perhaps
or his wife could be screwing the pool boy, maybe
you considered it while watching him depart,
tense and angry, with his hands in his pockets.
Tripping him on to the tracks, would it be so bad?
Bet he touches his kids, he looked like one of them,
from what you remember, skin crawled in response to his tone
probably, you admit chastizingly to a fallacy,
but press on shiny soldier, heaven feels through your instinct
without hesitation, the man would die tonight.
Am I too lazy to be a Murderer?
Shame digs out of a hole, wimp its battle cry
writhing dirtwise, reminding of reality,
and he’s probably just, some douche,
paranoia is better than boring, and people suck
but most are only, bumping like a car.
There is no point.