An Angry Call for Help

He smashed his hand down.
The counter top would certainly vibrate under the blow.
It did not.
His open fist had fallen on the knife’s edge.

Raising his arm a second time
He repeated the insanity,
Then subsided, looking at the blood,
Feeling the pain and the satisfaction.

Not being a small man
He’d damaged his hand, severely.
She’d certainly be contrite,
Less argumentative.

Who would he tell?
Many shocked, would offer
Sympathy, comfort
And suggestions.

As I consider the vision.
And twist away,
Did I contribute to this?
Did I enable, disable, or merely observe?

I felt his plight, became annoyed,
Long before the hand came down.
I’d made suggestions.
Was there something else?

Unfinished sculptures in Florence
Show incomplete men struggling for release.
Half mud, half man,
Never reaching light or peace.