‘SELF-PORTRAIT AS 007' - DAY(DREAM) # 1,516 Poem by Alfred Schaffer

Something has gone wrong.
I hang like shot game catching copious amounts of wind
high above a city.
Office glass everywhere, the blood slowly leaves my arms.
Something burning in the distance, a pack of dogs
bark angrily on the asphalt down below
helicopters hover out of sight rattling like egg whips.
Up to now, I'd always done my own stunts.
I utter a few screams that aren't in the script
that I fought evil with evil
evil was like a cockroach.
I always turned up when needed
before wandering off triumphantly into the future during the closing scenes
my deeds and misdeeds forgiven and forgotten -
I never shot my mouth off
I'd rather let go.