The chainsaw lurches, dragging delinquent teeth
down through the bones of his wrist.
He binds what is left
with a leather lace, and sets off,
aware that the sacrificed boot
is wearing a hole in his foot.
He walks ten miles to the town,
steps through the drone of the bar,
asks for a beer, and drops like a stone to the floor.
His name was probably Jack, nobody knows,
it happened a while back, and besides
the tale might almost be told
of anyone here —
somebody blunders a lift, or the truck breaks down —
anyone here would have walked to the pub
dying of a thirst.
The detail of blood, and subsequent death,
is rolled like a stone between beers, a careful excuse
for drinks on the stranger, or to muse
without thinking, for the sake of the words.