" The Watcher "
It’s a gathering of wild dreamers.
They’d topple these tall buildings down,
the savannah would grow back. They’d leave
for the coast. But somewhere on a rooftop,
a watchman grunts behind a uniform
of khaki. He has a starched mind,
like a brown-skinned warthog
whose eyes scab shut from staring
at the mottles of giraffe, and snake, and fowl.
His mouth swirls with cigar smoke
that he does not inhale. Below, they’re hooked
on cigarettes from his boss’s billboard.
You know the one. The beach is snow colored.
The girl has arctic blue eyes. It would all melt
under that sun. Behind the girl’s tanned hips
there’s a flash of warthog tusk. You thought
it was the stem of an umbrella? Look closer.
Not even our dreams are safe any more.
© 2005 Graeme Mullen
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