A man sits under the freeway bridge
fumbling with a pocket knife
every day. Opening and closing
the blade, testing it on twigs.
Some find it necessary to listen
for his footsteps after they pass,
sensing the shatter of sadness
and knowing what knives do. He
knows too, has felt them slice
young plums longing for
a lusher red. Seen them force
innocents to suffer like heroes,
paint Pollocks on tar, forsake
the meat and kill to kill. When
they go bad, it's not metal
but flesh that turns. He has
proof that in some hands
they save, that scar
on his chest where one went in
and took death out. Though
now he wishes they'd taken out
his heart instead. He could
have wrapped it in tissue
like a tiny glass egg
and put it somewhere safe.
(first appeared in Fourth River)
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.