The Wound

What are you doing, letting the clock slide like this?

Seven minutes past the hour to a man who values punctuality

Over food, over water, over broken bones and the flu.

What has chained you to a deviation in self so grand

That even a fool like me can spot it?

.

The table rattled from the force of his kick.

A hand on his elbow, cold and chastising.

But seven minutes was now eight

And there was no threat that could contain him.

Eight became nine.

.

The world tipped with the weight of his presence.

It choked out the chatter,

Rattled in the windows as the door slammed

Into stone and groaned on its ancient hinges.

He arrived.

.

It’s wrong, all of it.

Smooth cadence gone rotten, riddled with holes and gaps.

See there, the breath between his words shouldn’t be.

The stagger to the desk, the support of its wood…

He has never been so weak.

.

Dark hair fell forward, interrupting his sentence.

Chalkdust floated to the floor,

Coated black shoes in a sign of distress.

His jacket was lopsided by millimeters.

Disarray, a sin greater than tardiness.

.

Silence.

Scribbling pens against paper.

And a pair of eyes gone wide at the look of pain

Filling the abyss of the soul staring back at him,

Begging silently for help.

.

Have I lost my mind?

This man, this calloused, cruel creature can't be in pain.

But his lips have gone pale and there is a tremble

In the always steady hold of his hands.

And he is teaching us the art of aid.

.

Twenty-three past the hour the first drop of red fell.

It bounced against the stone,

Splashed bright and angry like a crushed cherry.

Then another. And another. And another.

The Professor was a rain cloud and here was his rain.

.

He was out of his seat, running, charging the head

Before the stoic figure could hit the stone.

Feet stampeded around him, running away.

Hiding, leaving, abandoning.

The fabric of his trousers ripped but he caught him.

.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

His blood, everywhere.

And tears, down his cheeks, on my hands.

He can’t break but why then

Is he shattered in my lap?

.

“Don’t go.”

The red spread across his belly, oozed through hands

Trying to stop the mulberry flow.

“I can’t stay,” hoarse and grieving already

As though the world didn’t need his heartbeat.

.

“You have to stay.”

It was hidden behind the black lapels, the cry for help,

And no amount of searching would solve the problem

Or put the red wine river back inside.

“Please. Stay.”