Tuesday, May 25, 2010

145. The man on the steps

Every synapse was
on edge. As a trapped fox,
he cringed into the fence line
with every approaching footstep,
with every brush of a passing coat hem.

His breathing shallow, his hackles erect,
a tremor enveloped his gloved hand.
Through a film of fear, he focussed
on his knobbly brush, an extension of his hand.
If it were to regain movement, the urge
to flee may subside.

Wrapped in its tourniquet of anxiety,
his heart beat with a ferocity
that blacked out thought; that banished
the very act of reason from within his body.
With a supreme act of will, he entered
the vortex of that fear -
quelled the interaction,
quieted the boiling blood,
stilled the quivering hand.

A globule of spittle burst from his lips,
Dropping in a mouldy splatter.
From without himself, he watched it arise,
a lace-work of rebound; before dissipating.

A sob wracked his chest.

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