Either Way Poem by Francis Santaquilani

I could be poetic

And say he was a dark eel

Manuevering through a house

Full of sons undetected. Seen

More in the mirror than out.

There to scare, like the old coalroom.

Potential impacted, like the cold, damp

Fireplace and clogged chimmney.

The silhouette of a foreigner

In the hallway at three a.m.

Slashing and slicing all

Who got in the way of his routine machine.

Never talking to me,

Yet taking the time to clip my little fingernails.

Preening in a second story window

While daring his wife to drop

Another son in the street below.

Posessor of the perfect euro-gaze.

He could've been anything he

Wanted to be, but he chose to hate, hate

And create more people to hate.


Or I could just list it

Like a beaurocrat. He was:

A flinger of food, a shredder of canvases,

A slapper, a hitter, a spoiler of Saturdays,

A door slammer, manicured, pedicured,

Pampered, wrinkle free, served, an

Ingrate, an existentialist, on the wrong side

Of the war and probably a sociopath.


Either way it's all accurate.

It all depends on who my audience is.

But lately, I just say I never new the guy.