He watches from a field; he’s there to gloat—
the video is from a cattle-car point of view;
grinning, the boy draws a finger across his throat.
The middle of nowhere—mountains, small, remote;
the name of some village no one ever knew—
he watches from a field; he’s there to gloat.
A region rich in wheat, barley, oat—
whatever seed was planted there, it grew:
grinning, the boy draws a finger across his throat.
The car slows, passing—space is like a moat—
alone—but as if the head of a queue:
he watches from a field; he’s there to gloat.
A breeze—for a moment, his white sleeves float—
the car picks up speed—he’s still in view:
turning, the boy draws a finger across his throat.
And he’s gone—the video ends—all dust motes—
all those years ago—some boy who knew:
he watches from a field; he’s there to gloat;
grinning, the boy draws a finger across his throat.
