Ken Kesey

The rain outside finds the smallest crevice
and expands, he pushes the boy aside to find his
way, into the elevator packed with the well-to-do
and the never-to-be-done, the toy hits the ground,
and this little Leland Stamper makes no move to pick it up,
just stares at him with little clouded hateful scared eyes,
fogged under too wide brimmed glasses,
the boy wipes his right hand on the curdoroy sleeve
of his left arm, mouthing something-or twisting his mouth,
he doesn't know what to say..."sorry" "i'll get that?"
but nothing comes out in this jammed up hot elevator
and the kid just keeps looking back, through him and over the moon
and back at him from behind- and all sides-
to tell you he's coming not now, not in the future,
but he's coming with the moon at his side,
tucked in his pocket, casting black and yellow shadows
lying in wait,
like a carnivorous plant on the hunt
predatory and immobile
patiently waiting until he grows old and feeble
is free of the elevator,
to strike ungodly and wreak his terrible narrative revenge.