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Unholy Herring By Ken
Shiovitz August
2003 The old man stuck a fork into the silken mass of sour
cream, Pulled out a writhing hunk of onion-wrapped herring, And slipped it between his waiting lips, Ignoring drips of excess whiteness that bedecked his gray
beard. Instead he reveled in the instantaneous pleasure, The momentary distraction that affirms continuity, In a life beset by constant struggle. Staring at the foreign newspaper next to his plate, His weary eyes tried to merge two matching headlines, Of gristly bombings in Jerusalem and Baghdad, And twin pictures beneath the heavy black words, That showed legs protruding from rubble and wreckage, Blown from one picture into the other. “This should punch a hole in their red herring,” The old man fumed, his eyes almost closed in anger, “Even the biggest apologists cannot explain this one away!” Tears appeared at the corner of the old man’s eyes, As he read about slain United Nations peace workers, Mangled children and innocent bystanders. He sucked down another slimy morsel, With eyes now completely shut in isolation. “They speak in the name of the people,” he said aloud, “But the people are too ignorant or too afraid to resist.” Staunching the aftertaste, he bit into a slice of black
rye, Then reset his pallet by drinking deeply of plain water. “A man must live by his principles,” he whispered, “No matter who says it, when I hear it, I know the difference between right and wrong.” The old man took the napkin from his undershirt, Wiped his beard, then thoroughly washed his face, Broke the wrap on a crisply starched shirt, And reached into the closet for his formal suit, Bearing sash and seal of the Norwegian Embassy, In preparation to face one more day without permission To publicly express an opinion. |
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