By Michael Sixto
Those who know me understand I am not passive.
I don’t like to easily surrender,
but I have plenty of reasons to leave.
Those who know me justify my actions.
They have long ceased to care.
They say I’m crazy. I don’t think I am.
In silence they compare me with characters
of Russian books read in times of hunger and weariness.
An old man arrives and asks if I am cold.
I shake my head while trying to evade his conversation.
It doesn’t seem to matter the fact that I am totally ignoring him.
Then he takes my hand,
“I was like you”, he whispers in my ear as he disappears in the crowd.
A bus swiftly passes by leaving a thick trail of smoke.
The night begins to fall. The park becomes shelter for wolves.
Those who know me call me Sonny, Tormented Poor Boy.
They show their teeth hoping I will return them a smile.
At night those who know me are no longer able
to distinguish myself in the dark.
I like the dark.
I see the wolves approaching and I stand still.
There’s something in their eyes that chilled me in the inside.
I let them eat me slowly while I satisfy my own hunger.
The old man discovers the scene and quickly runs thru…
as if he never knew me. Ashamed, in disgust he runs.
Today I decided to give myself in
when I still have superfluous reasons to leave.
Those who know me understand I am not passive,
but none of them is walking around this night.