Friday, November 22, 2013


Your friend's ashes are waiting far from where he asked you
to scatter them, while you are finding yourself staring down into
an eighth of an inch of blood on a dinner plate (finish your beer),
listening to a father and his college-aged daughter talking easily
and openly (you're starting toward maudlin, so move out)
teenage boys hold the doors open, think of silken black hair,
arms, veins, lips
when suddenly a family,
two parents in glasses and their three small children
moves innocently through, a brood...

You're brooding soon, under the moon
smelling the wet black parking lot
removing the thing from your jacket pocket
arranging it so that it points up under your chin 
then firing while still walking long strides
which just knocks you down, breaks your jaw,
but more importantly, your train of thought.

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