Photo by David Fucsku on Unsplash

Sleeping poet, smallpox champion

He’s in there, buried under his blankets.

He sits, he sleeps, he hides. What does he see? Nothing but the dirt in his face. Champion, him!

Smallpox champion — he lets it happen.

He buries his nose in old books and he scoffs at the passers-by walking down desolate streets. He holds his head up high and he bears his hollow crown with pride. Hero, hero, hero.

People don’t notice him. They lodge themselves in their buildings, they’re playing the game, letting the anasthetic cover it all. They get things done easy. People have forgotten he exists. He scoffs, they’re blind.

Don’t you worry about me! He announces to the world.

He says his friends are important — what friends? One looks out into the grey, and sees 10,000 peoploids cowering under ramshackle roofs, diamond dogs saluting each other from their positions on top of piles of rubble. Friends fearing for their lives.

Sleeping poet, smallpox champion. Seeing cracks in the sky and shutting out the strangers. Sensible poet, citizen, slipping away.

Does he have a responsibility? Does he have a right? Is the blanket his? Does he guard the gates of heaven?

His peers have fled instead of hiding in a tunnel with him. Do they have rights, responsibilities? Do they own their feeling? Do they guard the gates of heaven?

It’s no game!

Documentaries and newspapers and drawing the blinds! It’s all so much scarier. Diamond dogs are poachers! They live in the trees. Their method equals wipe out, wipe out, wipe out.

It is a dark day when the poet steps out of his lair and walks into the world. He holds his reams of paper and rubs his eyes. Dust greets his face.

The writer of this, he’s sorting old words, not writing new ones. He’s hollow inside, he’s empty. He has put all the power he has in the hands of the poet, but what does he have except others’ words?

The poet takes the world’s temperature. He gets up, out of the waiting room. A mask graces his face, a black hat sits happily on top of it. Others’ words, but the poet makes something of it that the writer can’t come close to envisioning.

People curse his name. Buildings vanish, every convenience melts away. Messages become precious, motions don’t pass. Trains fall into the abyss, and there’s no anesthetic.

He dies a happy death. The world goes on without him. Hey doctor, they call him, how d’you feel?

He says, “I healed myself.” Smallpox champion no more.