“In a frenzied court house he sits still
The leap of a file from its container
Makes his sunken eyes instantly tremble,
Scratching his cropped hair,
Like the ghost of a scarecrow in the field
Sustained by his immovable, faded chair
He’s already died in its care.
This village of voices explores his death.
I am thinking of how he may one day be
The savior of one.”