I shudder at the slow seductive scrape outside my window,
the expectant drag of a strained suck to catch escaping breath
and the determined heave ho of one foot tracing the other’s shadow
make me curl up, secret, unknown, from the seething and hollow
Angel of Death.
God Servant, whose sweet sweat everyday drips deliberate and freezes,
Dropping the homemade bomb atop pile after pile of cold cold cold…
The holy killer inside now a street sweeper outside my window
Who wields his snow shovel brighter than a fiery blade and piles
The firstborn snow aside and out of the way, gone for good, until tomorrow.
I pass you by, thirty three by thrice a day, pointing and whispering