A Bin Laden On Every Street Corner
A pillow can be a weapon.
So, too, can a twig, especially,
perhaps, a pine twig, whittled
clean and to a point. A trail
leads us to the scene: bare foot
inked as if stamped on purpose
across a kitchen floor. Outside,
a tractor idles. If you lose
your way, the trail burned into
memory will bring you back.
Does the hound take refuge from us?
What do we know? How to close
the door, shake out the rug, cower
when called. Now that one dead man
lies down inside us, aren’t we all
armed and dangerous?