Subterfuge Poem by Butch Decatoria

What genius evening keeps secret… moribund

His foot falls to echo the chill of November deep
Tapping, clapping, wrapping
His man heavy fragility in wool

How distant and suddenly wide is the night.

What shrewd skills fear casts, a mask,
That evening keeps him wary, attentive as wax,

Shadows shed no comfort for this lamb,
His rhythm once lord of the dance
Pulsing toes as eyes flash to every creak and whisper

Depth of sightlessness made paranoid by twisted twilight
Shapes, shifting with the nerves frozen with haste…

His weakness, not knowing, a pallid winter on his face
Even now the slow climb upon his back
Carried by the slip of a breeze laying waste,
The soundtrack of dead leaves and black

His foot falls stomping to clash and map
A stroll as reality saves nothing sincere, when fear
Deepens to his bones resolve and panic...

What genius a weapon: flights of fancy
And the conditioning of youth to preconceive

The hollow of city sidewalks, midnight's screaming chill
The mouth of alleys he passes ready to swallow him still

Strange and delicate the space between his ears
Defeated before finding a sure foot
Before reaching a well lit street

Familiar and familial suburbs of a mind
Diminished by the subterfuge of fear…

His foot falls turn a corner
And the sound of concrete and conflict

Disappear…