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.
