Savior Fantasy

Let's workshop this bitch!

Savior Fantasy

He has two main homes: both under 
Route-35 overpasses, walking distance
to a plasma spot. It can be huddled 
in the shadows of one of those nooks.
Or it can be on nearby islands under
stop lights with a fake crutch and one 
of his go-to cardboards: “HUNGRY—
Strong for Work,” or “Need Cash
for my WIFE’S RANSOM,” or the old
“Too UGLY to WHORE.” In any case,
the fantasy keeps evolving in his mind.

From the sky’s green-gray he can tell
a death-dealing twister is on its way— 
tearing down this very highway, in fact. 
Cars ignore him, beep. They swerve 
his teary lunges to block their passage,
his frantic efforts to leap on their hoods. 
One family, unable to ignore sincerity,
screeches to a halt. His eyes order them
to exit the car at once and follow him.
He carries various stupid belongings
they insist on bringing. No. Strike that.

He carries, instead, the mere newborn,
leading the rest to his concrete cavern.
He wraps them all in his army blanket— 
one he realizes, yes, they would reject
in any other situation. No. Strike that. 
With his arms alone he manages to hug
them all, somehow. Some versions,
in fact, even have him grope the tits 
of the underappreciated mother here.
Soft and giving, the leaking nipples 
become erect from his secret touch.

*This poem is unpublished