Some Game

Sometime back then he began running round the light,
dressed in striped fatigues, the prison building himself,
dodging a zigzag under the drunken guard’s sweep,
behind barbed wire or outside the fence.
Any hole he’d dug would come up deep,
far from the goal, neck-tied from the behind,
the garrote twisted round his throat by himself,
a lone magician of the not too sleight of hand,
turning sidewalk tricks to entertain himself alone.
Those unseeing eyes untrained on you, mister bob and weave.
There’s to all of ours.  If only.  Death be not proud?
Are you kidding me?
If death were playing baseball, he could have batted a 1000