The Man Waiting for Someone
in the Park

If only he were chained to a rock
and not in a park somewhere,
cold and bitter and dying for a cigarette.
If just for an hour or two,
he could be stretched on a rack,
or hog-tied, naked from the waist up,
whipped and flailed until his back
runs creeks of crimson.
But he’s waiting for someone,
muttering why don’t they show.
Why are there no more pillories,
scaffolds, cat-o-nine tails?
A stoning would be just the thing
to pelt the hours away.
Oh tie me to a horse
and drag me half a mile
down a rough rocky trail,
he implores the chickadee,
the rabbit scurrying for its brush.
Martyrdom’s a dying art, he concludes.
Then he looks again to his watch
but its hands are too thin
to be razors and the time it bottles
is a poison slower than life.