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It’s easy to
want someone dead.
Take this guy
who removed
the muffler
from his Harley,
now tearing
down the block
at 3 a.m., or
the dickhead
flicking a lit
cigarette from his car
to the
sidewalk. Something tells
me the woman
tossing chicken
bones under
the bus seat, now licking
her fingers,
is of no use to the world.
Doubtless if
they were weeping
in
confessionals over their small
though highly
revealing offenses,
or scribbling
apologies in journals,
I’d feel
differently. And don’t get
me wrong: I’d
rather not be the one
to gun down
the Harley guy—
though there
are excellent sight-lines
from my fire
escape. I’d just
as soon he
plunge quietly into
a tectonic gap
in 7th Avenue,
volunteer for
long experiments
in orbit, beta
test those new
exploding cell
phones.
I never feel
this way towards kids
I teach in the
detention center,
though when
they’re older, fully
tattooed and
towering over me
with hardened
contempt, hollering
back to one
another as they march
in gangs
through the subway car—
yeah, maybe
then I’ll want them
gone. They
tell me they want to die
young, draw
graffiti that translates
to leaving a
good corpse. They brag
to one another
about throwing
their pets off
the roof, and how
badly their
stepfathers beat them.
When I was six
my father’s father
shuffled to
where I was playing
on the living
room rug, took my
head in his
hands and rammed it
into the
coffee table. I later was told
he’d been down
the hall trying
to take a nap
and heard me laughing.
I was six and
he flung my head
into a table.
He’s dead now. What else
do you need to
know about him? |