The Warning

by Brett Rutherford

He could be anyone, really,

a face in the crowd.
Jowled man, raggedy-beard,
ill-fitting overcoat, too long
in a basement from the look
of him, he surveys the crowd
at Sixth Street and Liberty.

Happy, the faces going

to the John Williams concert,

more so, the families off

to see the Nutcracker.

Shoppers stride over

to the Christmas village,

to skate beneath

a handsome, lit pine.

 

He waits for a bus where

brown faces outnumber him,

and at this he is furious.

He rambles loudly, not into phone

but into the general air,

talk radio host to everyone

and no one. "Just wait!" he booms,

"Till all the undesirables are gone.

All gone .... all gone ... it's coming.

Then there will be no one left

but us conservatives." I groan

and turn away,

 

but he is not to be avoided,

pushes his way into the 13 bus

I too am taking. Shoppers

get on, bags bulging with gifts

or groceries. "Know where you've been,"

he mutters, "and what you've been up to.

Bet you didn't pay for that."

 

He mumbles awhile about

the conservative curfew

that would clean things up:

no one downtown after 7 pm.

"Close all the theaters."

 

More black people get on.

More shopping bags.

"Target acquired!" he proclaims.

"Target acquired! Take this one out!"

No one pays heed.

No snipers obey his orders.

None of us have bullet holes.

 

I get off my bus,

head for the poetry reading.

The madman rolls on

with ever more alien

and suspect riders

accumulating, his blood

raised to boiling before

he reaches the place

he sleeps in, safe and white.

 

He could be anyone, really,

someone I went to college with,

maybe; for a moment I thought

that's what my brother

might look like now,

the brother I haven't seen

in half a century.

He could be anyone, really.

His list is long,

and he is getting ready.