They scare me, the resin casts of men
in flannel shirts and jeans, feet webbed, unfeeling—
the light that glances off the eyes, the knees
wedded to the plastic grass they kneel in.
It scares me: the grass is the kneeling
with a new coat of paint. Everything is everything
but shouldn’t be. No wonder the men scream
to be let out, no wonder I’m a spooky town
and everything in me is trapped there, cast
and pacing the cage—not of its own making
but part and parcel, notwithstanding, of the pacing.
It scares me, the hand that does what hands
do: waiting, not without impatience, in the candy,
the hand that comes alive when you touch it
with your hand. Spooky town, spooky
citizen. And didn’t they cut it off, the scientists,
the dog’s head? And didn’t the blood pump
through the machine, like the machine was
a body? Don’t go in that house, we scream, that house
is me. It’s scary. And didn’t they eat the candy?
And couldn’t the dog still, notwithstanding, see?
