He was the man who slicked down his hair with gel
and enjoyed the power he held
in a place with cold walls,
with dank air,
with the dead sheep by the fire,
and a single light bulb over the bed.
He was the man who had trouble breathing through his nose,
who slept with his mouth open,
under the cast of a small circle of semidarkness
in the quarters of oppression
with cluttered memos,
with a coffee maker beside the soda machine,
with a bottle of linctus,
and the hide of a rabbit on the table
in the abode with the locked door.
He was the man with a man’s laugh
and the divine face,
created by the last stroke of genius
who underestimated his inner world,
who miscalculated mathematics,
who puffed him up with pure science
and gave him the go-ahead
to blast his prey down the stairwell;
his eyes numb and eerie
as he played the foul game.
He was the man who wanted it all,
who wanted it now,
who wanted it then,
who wanted it broken.
He was the one who did not want to be runner-up.
He was the man who said “too bad” with his tongue licking his lips,
with his smile
askew through his wry façade,
with a whiff of smut from his mouth
in his sluggish voice
and the empty bottle in his hand.
He was the man delivered from evil
who wanted to be
where he belonged
deep inside himself as sworn
and not in the airless room,