The Inquisitor

Arriving home, he rubs his hands

to warm them up or work out the kinks,

I don’t know which. Next he greets

the wife with a smack on the cheek

and gets one back in the give and take

of domestic bliss. After that he checks

the mirror to inspect his smile. Which

looks best, when he shows off his teeth

or not? He scrubs his hands with a stiff

brush, good soap. If hands could shine

this would be the time, but they’re as pale

as parchment or a worm beneath a rock.

A nice roast for dinner, not too rare,

sliced beets, chopped cabbage, asparagus

spears, then a fat cigar before the fire.

He would never think of kicking his dog;

the cat is safe on his lap. As for plucking

the wings off flies, he’s not that sort.

His children without exception get

the best Christmas and birthday gifts,

toy cop cars with flashing lights, dolls

that shed real tears. Quick to loan

a friend a hammer or cordless drill.

Quick to join the blood drive or pledge

a sawbuck to the policemen’s ball.

On Sundays it’s yard work, cutting the grass,

chopping a hedge. He’s good with tools

and might sharpen a neighbor’s ax.

At night he and the wife relax in front

of the TV with popcorn and beer—

tragedies and butchery, the usual fare.

What’s this nonsense? The screen is dark.

All the stories float in the air in between.