Poet # Four


Play football on Friday,

through mud and through soot,

wake up the next morning,

you're missing a foot.

 

Hop yourself through a hoop game,

your Saturday's grand, 

wake up Sunday morning

with only one hand.

 

On Sunday you're crying,

these thoughts you despise,

Monday rolls around,

you've lost one of your eyes.

 

On Monday you eat

comfort food for relief,

go to brush Tuesday morning

bare gums with no teeth.

 

What's happening here?

Oh what sorcerer's curse?

One foot and one hand

you could handle at first.

 

You dare not speak words 

lest your mandible burst,

and you don't dare have sex,

(Losing THAT'd be the worst!)

 

So you lock down all actions,

your life paralyzed,

but there go your earlobes,

biceps, hair, and thighs.

 

By the time Thursday night comes

you fear you'll be dead,

one week to the day,

you wake only a head.

 

So you roll down the stairwell

and "head" for the doctor.

When you pass by the park,

children use you for soccer.

 

Deflated and bruised

when you roll by the courts,

hoopsters shoot and dunk you,

rub your face on their shorts.

 

At last the Doc's office.

You wish you had cancer.

At least in that case

there'd be some easy answer.

 

Doc looks at you sideways,

he's smug and quite snotty.

"Just what would you like sir,

a prosthetic body?"

 

He writes a prescription

for pain medication,

shoves the script in your mouth

as he calls his next patient.

 

You roll down the boulevard,

scalp over chin,

back to your apartment 

to let death set in.

 

You arrive at your home

with the pills in your mouth,

finding you're not alone,

someones there on your couch.

 

Your Father! Your Father!

He says "Hello Head."

But this can't be your Father,

'cause your Father's dead!

 

This can't be your Dad,

look, his eyes are aflame!

And he just called you "Head".

Your real Dad knows your name.

 

He sees you're no dullard

(though you're battered and weak),

his skin changes color,

as he starts to speak:

 

I'm the first fallen angel,

I equate with upheaval.

You know me as Lucifer:

Master of Evil.

 

It is I who enacted

this tragic infection.

See, one week ago

Jesus pulled his protection.

 

All evidence says

that the Lord thinks you've sinned.

I know not your transgression,

that's between you and Him.

 

But for some unknown reason

He's left you exposed,

and to exploit this new opening

I am so predisposed. 

 

So let's make a deal!

Acceptance makes you whole!

The price is quite nominal,

(yep, you guessed it) your soul!

 

I'll restore your body.

You'll forever be proud!

You'll be richer, more handsome,

and better endowed!

 

You'll have women, a mansion,

the respect of your peers--

remain youthful forever,

wisdom beyond your years.

 

And if you decline,

Well, for you, that's a loss:

to be the main ingredient

in my Special Eternal One-Eyed Head Soup with Maggot Sauce.

 

So what do you say?

The decision is yours.

A billionaire's life,

or worms eating your pores?

 

You think of your Father,

how he raised you in church,

the love of your Mother,

how she valued good works.

 

Then you think of your body,

you were an athlete, a dancer--

then you open your mouth,

and give Satan his answer.

The End

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