Sunderland

The wind from the west was unseasonably warm, like

the breath of spring tickling the buds of the tall waving trees.

And I decided that happiness was a trap set, a snare

for my neck, a claw for my ankle, every time stealing

my freedom, every time dragging me down, leaving me

crippled just a little bit more, a little more pain to

carry around, a hinder, a limp, a migraine headache.

                            …………………

There's a muskrat who lives under the bank under

the bridge over the river that runs through the swamp,

with his rat skin tail like a segmented worm, with his

buck teeth and oily fur that he grooms with his tongue.

I imagine he's alone. I don't see any other rats swimming,

no other arrowhead wakes of ripple and gurgle. It's only

him and I'm certain he likes it that way. A marsh bound

recluse ignoring the geese and the ducks, ignoring the

blackbirds and herons, ignoring the sounds and the sights.

I imagine him saying, I'm only a rat. Leave me alone.

So why should an ogre attempt at beauty. Let him sit

on the gravel pit hill, limestone sliding down at his feet.

Let his beard grow long along with his hair. Let his clothes

get haggard and torn. Let him be smelly and go barefoot,

let him beg food with a walk into town. Let him talk

nonsense and scare small children. Let him draw insults

and stones. Let his nails grow out into curly cued fangs and

let his ears grow deaf so he can't hear anyone, he can only

hear ghosts and those are his own.

He wants no kindness, he wants no booze He'll take some bread

and some cheese. Don't worry, soon he'll be gone, back to his

silence, back to the place where he belongs. And he'll sit and know

how not to speak; he'll sit and he'll know how not to remember.

And one day he just won't be there. One day he just will be gone.