Damocles

Instead of a sword hanging over his head

he has a bomb. When the dog's bark says

"Throw me the stick! I want to chase the stick!"

he shields his eyes and turns away

seeing it as a bright ball of fire.

When two girls in the restaurant

laugh their gift-of-God laughter

he sees the building melt and flow down the street

bearing them away as smouldering slag.

He runs frantically from town to town

growing smaller, dying his daily death,

searching the skies and hiding in crevices and caves,

disregarding squirrels storing next year's food.

He walks through streets of first love and flowers

on days of worshipping the miracle of apples,

of twig bend and stem joint, violins and mountains,

on days of worshipping the sunshine of the hour

or days of sidewalk fairs and banjo songs.

But he only sees the river suddenly boil

and the fishermen turn to ash.

He prays to become reptilian to survive

and shrinks from the constant argument of guns,

feels the burning gases of the sun

and the constant cyclone of departing lives.

Finally he reasons that if the beginning was the word

the end should be also

and sits in his room copying the phone book-

Harvey Hess . . . Helen Hess . . . Hyman Hess... Ira...