[The sixteenth installment of the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"Sketchy"
Charlie Ehrenhardt
I never saw who it was that snuck up behind me,
And nothing ever again after the bat struck my head.
But I always figured Len Saunders for the slugger,
For my alleged ogling of his wife as she strutted to the bank
Each morning while I painted the mural on Kemp’s storefront.
Now as I sit on my front stoop, sketch pad in my lap,
I can discern Len’s voice in the beehive buzz of the passing mob.
I imagine flaming torches and bobbing pitchforks,
Some local variation on a Universal horror movie.
I work my charcoal, trying to link mind’s eye and muscle memory,
Yet when I press my fingertips to the paper as if it were Brailled
I detect only smoothness, my creation doomed to vagueness.
Meantime the mob rumbles on, emanating animosity like a shockwave.
I’m guessing that come morning, I won’t be the only one
Here in Grantwood wondering just what have I done.
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