Spontaneous Madness
He was only ever seen leaning
against the gate
keeping tabs on his tenants
watching the street for passers-by
with dead eyes like a hound dog
left living too long.
The sole time life entered him,
as far as anyone knew, was one winter afternoon.
It was the holidays, so the streets were quiet
save for the sudden jolt of a man
screaming at the top of his lungs
screaming with such fury that
it set the hairs standing
and even got the neighbours
out at their gates
unsettled
irritated.
It was him, and he was drunk.
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You could smell it from 15 feet away
and hear it from the other block,
he tore at his shirt
the buttons popped off and clinked down
as he grabbed at his face his hair his ears
pulling as though it were on fire
flinging his glasses to the floor and stomping them
throwing his body against the wall
writhing, wailing, writhing, wailing,
nobody understood his words but
they sounded like a chant,
a wounded desperate chant,
a few tenants tried moving closer
and he threw haymakers madly
as though aiming for the flies
instead of the men,
he shook the gate and kicked it
flung his scooter to the floor
then got down on his knees and
screamed at the sky
spit dripping down the corner of his lip
tears streaming down his bloodshot eyes.
The crowd just stared, some had phones out
filming as they chuckled and said
“What’s wrong with this guy?”
“Ah, he’s just drunk. I’ll call the cops,
they’ll sober him up quick.”
“But he’s in pain, serious pain.”
“Nonsense, it’s nothing but an excuse for attention.”
When the police arrived
he was cross-legged on the floor,
a towel draped over his bare torso
to soak up the buckets of water
splashed on him to ward away the demon,
for it had to be a demon
possessing him-
Why else
would a man act like that?
The police took some cash and went their way,
the crowd shook their heads
muttering tsk-tsk-tsk as they returned
to their hallowed peace.
His wife sat beside him,
her ears pink with shame,
feeding him a bottle of water as he stared
at a single patch on the ground.
None could tell if he was crying.
In fact, none could see
what his face was showing,
not his wife
not the street returned to silence
and certainly not the sky he wailed to.
He sat like that until the sun went down,
then he went inside.
Every sighting of him since has been
the same leaning against the gate,
the same dead eyes like a hound dog
left living too long.
