Hanged Man

There’s a hanged man

outside in my yard,

he swings in the wind

like a black fruit

and I feel his weight

falling into the void.

On a moonless night

he’ll come to my door

with an end of knotted rope

around his broken neck,

and he’ll ask to come in

to dry his old cracked boots.

And when I let him in

like an old friend

to warm his veined hands,

I’ll look into his eyes

as he tells me of his soul –

my brother in crime.

By Michael Warren