The Evil Wood Planks

I

“Dad is his name,

it’s his given!’

Len shouted brokenly

to his walls

and to the floor,

his friends,

his others.

“They can’t take him away,”

as his sobs intensify,

“I have his handles,

I kept them dry.”

He screams as they lay

plank

after plank

over the worn photo of a man

with no name.

He screams as they bind his arms,

and shut his mouth.

He cries ever so silently

for the loss of his world,

the loss of his world.

II

Through the central field,

the crowd pushes on,

screaming in victory

they trample the earth.

The lead runner

leaps the steps,

the concrete is cool

and smooth

under her single

unshod

foot.

With passion unbridled,

emotion climaxed,

she screams at the air

each number of the step.

From one to thirty-seven,

skipping only nineteen,

the mountains,

the sky

listen to shout back,

every syllable intoned,

every mad phrase.

III

The bench holds the poet,

a brown paper sack,

bundles of cotton candy,

and the weight of the world.

A pirate of feelings,

of Len and the runner,

the foot and the photo,

the evil wood planks.

April 30, 1995

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4 responses to “The Evil Wood Planks

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