A Night in the Life of the Ragetown Manager

'Where rage consumes, nothing remains.'
The Sunset Vagabond

On the night of the rage
the manager of Ragetown
takes to his bunker
under the clock tower.

He sits in a rigid chair,
his pinstriped suit threadbare,
his glasses newly cleaned,
his hair a bramble thicket,
his eyes a pale lime.

Rumours say he's been in charge since childhood,
when he arrived on the train by accident
and never left.
If he has a name
he's never spoken it.

He sits in a purple armchair,
monitoring the rage's progress
from the comfort of serenity.
Frenetic servants scuttle about
to whom he dictates which fresh chaos
should be unleashed next,
all the while his suit turns wrinkled,
his glasses shining like morning dew.

At first light he emerges,
his suit reeking, and the lingering
wake of the rage greets him.
The manager wipes his glases clean
with his untouched white handkerchief.