The Hermit Of Westfield

He sits on a pole in the desert.
He's been there a long time, he's forgotten.
Hair grows down around the pole
rare insects nest in the curls
birds flit through the undergrowth.
In summer, butterflies feed
off the flowers that have grown
up the strands that sing
in the equinoctial gales.
His hot, tight eyes are focused
on the horizon. He has succumbed
to lightning, sunrise, sunset
growth and destruction of small villages
the razing of forests, elevation of watch-towers
He hardly noticed the by-pass
they built, then widened, then re-routed
around his fingers curling into the stream
In the beginning, his goddess
was a bright being that sustained him
nourished him. Food came to like rain.
He felt good. Then, he cannot remember when,
he think it was when the fields became infertile,
he slid into darkness.
His heart hardened, became hard-core
he had to suppress, patch, re-route.
shore-up. He dug in for the long haul.
He had committed to her, it was expected.
It was his duty.
Time passed, light flickered in the darkness,
the errant thoughts began. He woke up
one mid-summer's night, wanting to burn everything
down, his goddess included. He was saddened,
mystified. He went around removing
these thoughts. At his back, his worship
is a glacier, slowly moving
down the valley, pushing errant thoughts
before it. He obsesses with escape,
of climbing down from his perch
and running away. He tries to suppress
these thoughts, or at, least,
a way out that will satisfy everyone.
An accident, his car in front of another.
Nobody would ever know.
She would collect the insurance -
and his parents, well, they'd grieve
but he would have done his duty
He would be a good boy.