The Stooge

He sat there at the bench,
The early sun intruding,
Shining through stone walls,
Onto his black, black eyes,
That glittered obscenely.

His face was tired,
Slack and indifferent,
But the eyes shined,
Malignantly,
While his badge glittered,
Proudly.

My heart nearly froze,
As recognition bloomed,
And hatred pollinated,
Attracting strange insects,
To my revolting self.

Fear for the future,
Froze my soul,
And righteous defiance,
Fired my rage.

But I sat there prostrate,
Helpless before the bench.