Brought out on top of the hill,

beneath the same Oak tree.

The Oak tree just on the outskirts of Arcadia Hills

Near the windmill with the dog which always barked,

the dog with the long beard,

the grey goatee,

that haunted my dreams as a nightmare when I was a child.

The dog, a reality at the mill.

 

Brought there by nine men,

took me in an unmarked van painted a deep red,

windows tinted black, hubcaps rattled, the engine got louder with each gas.

They were rough, and they were buff.

They must have worked out too much

Or played the game.

They blindfolded me inside the dirty van,

perhaps rented, or recently abandoned.

 

Brought me sitting up to the hill,

tied for judgement.

One of the men,

he removed my blindfold, now soaked in sweat of fear.

With a strong strike,

he slapped my face.

I felt the cold blood trickle down my left cheek.

A mark left under my eye, must have been from his high school ring.

 

Brought me up to my knees,

they accused me of unthinkable acts.

Accused me of spreading the disease to their sister.

I explained, I claimed, unaware, not even here.

They didn’t listen, they only slapped once more,

as the Oak tree looked on in silence.

 

 

© 2008 David Greg Harth

08.01.14.17:58:48@599BwayNYC