That Guy, by James King

The Third of May 1808, by Francisco Goya (Spain) 1814

​That Guy
 
I’m not the guy in the white shirt about to run
red. I would not have had the strength to raise
my arms like Christ wondering why dear old
dad had deserted him, not with that cyclopean
musket staring me in the face. And I wouldn’t
wear yellow pants, even on Madrid’s finest 
golf course.
 
I’m not the guy on the legs of the guy sleeping
in a pool of sandy blood, fish-mouthed,
his compatriot staring through closed lids at stars
black. They were the brave vanguard, not where 
I would have been and my personal space needs
prohibit even posthumous contact with a dead
man’s legs.
 
I’m not the guy in Christ’s right armpit, looking 
serenely past the row of fuzzy felt hats lined up
like dice cups in a street con. He has accepted
his fate and waits with eyes open. For me it be
would resentment, not acceptance. Fault not fate.
And horseshoe mustaches went out with the 70s,
I think.
 
I’m either the guy 
 
framed by the left armpit, three rows of buffer
bodies between me and the bullets, crouched
over, hands to mouth, chewing  nails, 
a cartoon rat with a wedge of Wisconsin,
looking away in hopes that lack of eye contact
will render me invisible, childlike, hiding in
plain sight
 
or the guy 
 
closest to you on the right, posture perfect,
impeccably and appropriately attired
for the task at hand, position locked, white
rucksack across my back like angel wings, 
ready and willing to climb that steeple
beyond the hills, rising into that black sky,
with you.

James King

James King’s poetry has appeared in The Dillydoun Review, The Thieving Magpie, Big City Lit, and others. James is also the author of the award-winning novel, Bill Warrington’s Last Chance. He lives in Wilton, Connecticut.