by Bruce McRae
The devil wore a business suit and baseball cap,
a sign of poor taste, if not pure evil.
The devil had a briefcase. It held one sandwich.
One of the clasps was broken. The sandwich was ham.
He read yesterday’s newspapers, again and again,
failing to grasp the gravity of the situation.
“These damned comic strips,” he thought aloud,
“They’re just not that funny . . . ”
The devil sat in the park, watching the clouds roll by,
seeing proud stallions cut down in perpetual warring,
seeing lambs frolicking on their way to the slaughterhouse,
and all the while recounting his past successes.
He went into a restaurant and ordered a meal,
the waitress flushed with pride, with lust and innocence,
her scent filling the devil’s flared nostrils.
“And make it hot,” he insisted, “Really spicy.”
The devil, at home alone and playing solitaire,
cheating, of course, cheating himself and all others.
Or plopped on his couch in front of the television,
amazed by mankind’s cruelty and invention.