When The Trouble Comes
it comes illiterate
reading
Soldier of Fortune magazine,
but always to church on time,
in its Sunday best,
praying for world peace,
it comes bearing gifts
from the dollar store,
shit you never wanted,
like a severed head
on a Styrofoam plate.
When the trouble comes
it’s got the smile of a shark,
asking you to sign
on the dotted line,
a muse amused
in its well-heeled shoes,
one hand down your pants
as it slips the rope around your neck.
It comes on cat paws
or in stampedes,
like a rat running through a maze
for a piece of cheese,
it’s the bull on the roof,
wolf at the door,
monkey on your back,
white elephant in your chicken shack,
it comes
in polluted waves,
bombs falling,
catching you in its crosshairs
unaware,
or in great slaughterhouses built
especially for the disposal
of people just like
you—
when the trouble comes
it gets rid of the wrong ones
and leaves the righteous
to tell the tale.
It comes head on,
in full frontal nudity,
always dressed for success,
cutting a rug in its
Saturday night tristesse,
guaranteeing your right to life,
liberty,
the pursuit of misery,
it’s got your back
with a knife.
Scott Blackwell is a former resident of San Francisco and an MFA graduate of the San Francisco Art Institute. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has most recently had poetry published in Iconoclast, Barbaric Yawp, The Interpreter’s House, Floyd County Moonshine, Nerve Cowboy, Tribeca Poetry Review, and others. He currently resides in Champaign, Illinois.