He is a target –

scarlet-faced,

shirt-drenched,

stippled neck

rising from

white-collared trench,

hot-tipped ears

conspicuous as a hare’s.

He is skewered

by their stares

and cowers

when their jibes

javelin through the air;

he swivels on his chair,

wounded.

 

 

An army of platelets

surges,                                         

rampaging

with fervent urgency

through feathered tendrils

to fix the damage.

 

They race,

run reckless laps

in furious loops,

trailing puce,

ensnaring him

in crimson coils,

spinning him

in scarlet skeins

pinking skin,

whirl ruddy eddies

in his face –

he is in the marketplace,

braced in the stocks

where rotten tomatoes

are launched like rocks.

 

He hears

the rushing of water

as they swirl

in the empty river beds of his ears

and circle his neck

in whirlpools.

 

He is drowning.

He is bleeding

inward tears.