by Brett Rutherford
The man who would be king
avoids high parapets,
hill-tops and cliffs,
lest one swift wind,
or an assisting hand
should tip him over,
a parachute, twice-checked,
is always in reach
of his small hands
when his private jet zooms
from place to place.
He dreams in cold sweat
of a long fall from space,
not to some placid sea,
but to the very spot
where a sink-hole opens
to receive him.
So eager is Hell
to have him.
