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Pallbearer's Guilt
by
Rusty Broadspear
Black
pointed tails flap and slap with each gust,
Giant angry bat wings, tethered, cannot break free.
One, two, three
He stands erect, in one hand he grips a weekend
bag.
His top hat reveals a scrawny neck and neat
hairline.
Seven, eight, nine
Thoughts of loneliness emanate, radiate with
sadness.
Shirt sleeves escape the bag, waving, wanting to be
seen.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen
Unmoved, eyes open or closed, he faces the ancient
tower.
In the winter sunlight, he resembles a shadow, an
outline.
Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine
Shirt sleeves embrace his legs, begging freedom or
motion.
Unseen bellows blow the day into fury, frenzy,
alive.
Forty three, forty four, forty five
High gaping windows stare down at him, uncaring,
blind.
A pidgeon momentarily takes refuge on a sill and
then is gone.
Fifty nine, sixty, sixty one
Mumbled words fade in and out of the wind strewn
mayhem,
Maybe curses or verses or a prayer destined for
Heaven.
Seventy five, seventy six, seventy seven
I was behind him and above, captivated, fascinated,
Remote, detached, unfeeling but anticipation grew.
Eighty, eighty one, eighty two
I heard my name, looked up, saw my fall,
Flittingly, his face at the window; the rest I
could ignore.
Ninety two, ninety three, ninety four
He visibly shuddered, screaming words of sorrow,
Towards the tower he stumbled and blundered.
Ninety eight, ninety nine
.. he approached his
end,
As rains rode the winds and the heavens thundered.
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