The Collector

The Collector


I knew a murderer, a long time ago,
and eyeing for eyeing toothing for toothing—oh, yes!—
murdered, in time, by the State, a time I kept the vigil.
Damned nice guy when you got to know him,


went to Killeen with him and to Vietnam ,
all that training, yes,
he didn't kill anyone there,
didn't call hardly anyone a Gook, just
read quietly, all day, every day, unless working,
listening to dots


and dashes, ditty-bops, in the commo hut,
Americal Division, 2/20th, Chu Lai , Vietnam , Republic of,
Calley's group. He was gentle, with a ring of scars, ridged,
on his shaved smooth scalp.


Successful guy years later, car dealership,
richer than either you or I, married, big car,
very quiet, head still sunk in books except when
selling cars or buying out other auto


dealerships. A quiet dealer, poetry in his soul,
he fell from love and one day, a normal day,
the kind of day when all things being equal
he would have read or reread books,


he'd become a collector—Victoriana—Browning,
Tennyson, a little Clough, and, yes, Swinburne
for his wilder moments, all the Rossetti circle,
a small Whistler hanging by his desk


though he did not own a single peacock feather—
warm day, hot Texas sun blazing overhead,
not like a wafer, no moment of communion,
the kind of day, when, when he has fallen out


of love and does not want to divide his art,
his Tennysons, wants his Brownings safe at Baylor,
his Christina to move in, long white dress,—
perhaps he isn't thinking straight—he's been


trained for this, not in subtlety.
He'd stopped the day before,
bought an AK-47, a magazine, gold-tipped bullets,
just enough, to do the job.
It's what he's dreamed about. The scene is fresh,


and when she wanders in, he smiles,
the action moves easily.
A too large pattern, he thinks, should have zeroed in.
He does not see blood spatter on the wall,
hardly hears her scream. He pulls


a copy of Oenone down, fingers the dark green cloth.
He thinks he'll read a while and then go back to work.
He sits in his favorite Queen Anne chair,
the Whistler near. He doesn't even know he cries.



H. Palmer Hall


Posted over on The Literary World of H. Palmer Hall
(First appeared in WLA: War, Literature & the Arts )