The night was cold. Steam rose in little
curls
From his many wounds. He walked along
The side of a highway, praying some old
Trucker would stop for him, see his
wounds,
And realize his obligation to a wounded
man.
But no trucks came. Nobody came. It was
late
And the world was asleep. A soupy fog
hovered
Above the ground, close but not quite
touching.
The farther he walked, the more the
wounded man
Thought about the ocean, his skin clammier,
chewier,
More squid-like with each passing mile.
He didn’t blame anybody, though. He’d
asked for this.
He’d asked to go to war, to run with the
monsters
And feel the moonlight on his face while
he wounded
Other men and watched steam rise from
their wounds.
What he didn’t like (if he could be said
to still have opinions,
In his condition) was that it was his
luck to be the last man
Standing, chosen to die alone on some
godforsaken road.
But he kept walking. And walking.
Because the wounded man
Knew that the next time he laid down the
hovering fog would
Grasp him in its hand and carry him off to
a darker night.
0 comments:
Post a Comment