Peter At The Gate
He takes a long dark drag on the cigarette
and sips: whiskey. His head buzzes.
You’d think the old man with the hook
would have had something more exotic.
Tick-tock. Strange guts, obscure wiggles
awash in blood, blue and purple.
For all the usual strangeness, no mystery,
no bang-a-rang, no joy in the killing.
The sword. Bloody, as it always was.
No joy in the sword. He lets it droop.
Tick-tock. His feet are heavy, dragging
on the deck, wet with death, with loss.
Wendy lays on the Captain’s bed. Blood
between her legs, as red as all of it.
The Captain, the Indians, the Lost Boys,
even the Crocodile; now the Darling.
Tick-tock. Shiranu ga hotoke. Once more
to the window, never barred. Freedom.
He does not fly. No happy thoughts.
He falls. Falling, he remembers it all.
The death, the cutting, the pain, the anger,
the abandonment, the loss, loneliness.
Tick-tock. Wendy lives on in silly dreams
of lost childhood. Pan is free, in gravity.