Mercy tiptoes uneasily

on the razor-thin edge of pain,

wearing a black felt fedora

and one white glove.

 

He could easily be mistaken

for Mr. Michael Jackson.

 

But his awkward presence

and voice from Antarctica

pull the curtain away

from any such mystique.

 

The hat hides bruises,

masks a bald spot

from wrestling with demons.

 

The glove is merely a barrier

against forbidden skin to skin.

 

It is not easy being Mercy

in a world consumed with pain.

 

Copyright 2017