The Catcher in the Rye
Milling around in the middle
Of a field of rye.
Behind us is an open pit
With fresh dirt piled at its sides
There're rumors of a mass execution
Planned for later
That’s when we notice
All the barbed wire
Crowning our surrounding fence
Sentries in towers train
Blinding white lights
Down on our little stage
None of us knows why
We’re here. Whispers of past
Convictions filter through the crowd
Like airborne viruses.
Someone begins to cough
We break into cliques.
Over there are the hard men
With special bones
But undeveloped livers.
They take their shirts off
And begin to chant
Sequences of monastic slogans.
A small group near the edge
Of the grave is tightly huddled
Around a small child
They take turns telling
Her stories to kill the time
Closest to the guns is a column
Of folks who think they know
Their executioners by name
As if that will change anything.
I’m in a similar predicament
As a couple other people here,
Stragglers who’ve staked out a little parcel
Of hard-earned ground
Where we’ve decided
To make our final stand.
It never really made sense
As a life strategy
At least until now
When things don't exactly
Clarify, but somehow seem
Slightly less difficult to understand.
Stupid humans, we think every flash
Of light in the middle of the pitch black
Means another chance
To get things right.
And try to catch every bullet we can
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