Mr. Cut Here

With his palm down, over the bright green bushes,

He lets his hand brush over them as he walks down the hall.

Caressing droplets of dew from the shoots,

He smiles a very private very lopsided smile.

Thinking thoughts I imagine to be rather discerning,

His glassy eyes not seeing the shoots he's caressing.

As I look upon his ghostly slight figure with venom,

Never, not even once would he glance around.

Not realizing the confused hatred of my unsound mind,

He went on walking at his decidedly measured pace.

Careless, uninformed and unknowing,

Eternally, wholly, unaffected by my misplaced enmity.

A milky white latex glove in his slender hands,

He blew until it ballooned like a cow's udder.

The fat girl by his side laughing, and he laughing,

Its echoes filled the vacant corner where I stood.

Over the days, I silently watched and brood,

Waiting for a glance that never came my way.

What few recollections I have of him,

The one that loops like a broken film,

Are of him in the hallways, walking steadily,

Not in herds as boys often do; solitarily.

His head tilted back, slightly to the right,

Staring into depths unfathomable.