Message to an Aggressor

I dislodge a fragment of granite from the asphalt-sanded soles of my favorite black-and-white shoes, a fragment originating perhaps from a driveway in Fort Oglethorpe or my job's recent renovations, with its pinewood-sectioned-off routes. As I do this, I read a comment of a man who tapers my liberty, my list of mistakes and confessions and infatuations and nonsense. Yet still I hang my art in public view, in vintage typeset for those friends and cowards to prove I'm a lunatic.

If I mentioned her olive skin, or provided a sketch of some new lover, would that be enough to provide an unconfusing message? If I became an ebullient homunculus hung from my front door, would that be enough to sell my house and story?

Poetry can bring me to peace; I wish it was not misinterpreted. I wish that I could simply look out of my second-story window onto the upturned leaves preceding a storm and not think about who may be searching, waiting for me, on a twilit street, next to a desecrated church.