Under Control

forty-five years

of being afraid

of what rage 

the next person 

is carrying like a disease 

when they pass

close to me 

forty-five years

of crinkling my eyes

in a manner 

that will be viewed

as authentic enough

of smiling with my lips

and asking

how I can help people

of building sea walls

out of the bodies

of my sycophants 

so that I may

stand back

and watch the storm 

coming in, flanked 

by its banners of darkness

of walking very fast

under the candle flame

of the streetlights 

of checking the lock

on the door

for a second time 

of not striking at anyone 

with feet or fists

although the water level

in the black well

cannot keep rising

indefinitely

without poisoning 

all of us 

I cannot 

keep my temper

under control

for another

forty-five years