A Silent Hymn

I saw you.

Yes, I saw you, Man with a Chainsaw.

Oh, yes, yes, I did, after my initial horror and morbid thoughts, realize that there was no jagged cutting chain upon your saw. And yet, you (much like the rest of the train car) did not seem to care. Your eyes, in that weathered face (dare I cast thee as grizzled?),--a leathery and fantastic map of a face--your eyes cast about, shining with pride, and you could not hold back your spindly fingers from softly (ever so softly) touching (caressing) your Chainsaw.

A miniature Chainsaw, wielded by a maximum Man. A man who, no doubt, has seen things that I have never seen (nor, I am sure, do I want to see).

Who am I to judge? Who am I to cast aspersions and hold fears? For this man wears draped about him a cloak of aura, crafted from the exotic fabric of Vietnam (the 'Nam), Vincenzo (or Vinny, now dead), safety-orange hard hats, the world's largest and most painful splinter. This cloak is lined with straight shots of whiskey chased with a pack of Chesterfields, and probably also plaid.

The cloak is a metaphor, but it is also real, reaching across the car to poke a hard finger at my chest, making a straight-up "whatcha gonna do about it" challenge as old as cowboys. Yes, I was listening to The Carter II, and yes, I am a devastatingly handsome young lad who was once put on academic probation at Princeton, but the cloak, and its blue-collar Spartacus of an owner, merely gave a silent laugh, easily conveying the sentiment that hung close and heavy in the air around my hanging head:

Where was my chainsaw?