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I build these sorrow-mangled rooms
like a proper builder man.
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This one has one ball; that one has another.
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Always doing the interrogation tango
and yet always left with something like
wet in your hand.
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I make a ruckus of intestinal glee:
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the fat one left being fat
until I chop his sides away like a sneeze,
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the gestural guts of his game a simple
stance of something to stick your hands in.
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The skinny one bends and breaks like
the twink twig he is.
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Subsequent deposition testimony, along with previous evidence by way of his diary, would place this poem along the lines of 1994, two years before the final raid of his employment.
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While there is historical reference to the fat one, the skinny one can be considered a fictional fantasy in contrast to the reality of his own actions.
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