hunted
The knife fighter.
The disowned man,
the man with no trade,
the man with no luck, no track record, no foundations,
the man with rotting teeth,
with twitching fingers, tight lips, quick eyes and nervous ears.
Raw potatoes and
stringy chicken
scabby skin and
varicose veins
from hitchhiking too far, aging too fast.
Mouldy pumpkins and black rice festering in the umber light.
The dead man walking, the dishwasher
the blues singer, the houseguest
the cowherder in the dancehall
as the pretty ones twirl past
he runs his knuckles along the brickwork
in place of conversation.
His neck always aches, his skin always chafes, his eyes are always red and raw,
he stands close to the edge
where other creatures will not tread.
He longs for time, he longs for peace
for laughter, singing
the ocean, friendly eyes.
A pall of thick air, unbreathable and blackened
trammels up his weary lungs and fills his nostrils with
fear, with fevered dreams of hell:
persecutions past
and to come; howling winds and rabid dogs.
He sways slowly in the dimming light of winter approaching,
all the doors are barred and every eye
fixed on him,
gravel wieghs heavy in their hearts,
icicles bloom and crackle in their veins -
no pity or warmth,
just a large club ready
for when the wolf comes too close.