If only he had stuck to painting murals,

if only he wasn’t driven by nature

and run over constantly

by the Greyhound buses that skipped

and lolled through the desert

and 92 degrees heat, if only

he wasn’t such an arsehole,

we might have liked him more.

 

If only he had found a way

to curb his appetite,

to not clip the wings

of his bird

of prey, of his chosen meal

that would stop his mind from being obsessed,

if only he could change that nature,