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Poem

“I just started choppin’!” he said
Chopped so long his hands were bare
Split open, blistered like a cherry pie
It was the day after Auschwitz
So mad at the world, at the Nazi’s, at God
“So I’m just gonna chop!” he said
A swing and a CRACK!
A swing and a CRACK!
Splintering wood, chips fly in the air
The fourth of July, wood sparks everywhere 
Like split open skulls, the logs laid bare
So filled up with steam, huff and puff
Till he’s flush in the face
But that axe keeps climbing 
It’s way above his head and his shoulders
To rest a moment before it enters
The wooden fibers to split between
“D--- the world!”
and “D--- the Nazi’s!”
How could you let this happen?
How could you make this happen?
With your rooms filled of shoes and glasses and hair
And the buildings of luggage and flesh lamp skins
How could you let this happen?
How could you make this happen?
“I’m just gonna keep on choppin!
Till the cows come home!”
He said, “I’m just gonna keep on choppin’!
Forever and ever!”
“But sir,” I said, 
“won’t you run out of wood?
And then you’ll end up like them.”

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