Ain't That Lovin' You Baby?

He put the knife down

finally.

His pried fingers

ached.

It took extra effort

to pull them apart,

hennaed with watersheds

of cooling rage.

The choruses of panic

and certain supernova finality

fade out,

get gone,

go real rearview-mirrored and reverse

with every new nothing

blue bonnet baptized

into thought.

This is act one, scene one

of the real thing.

The understudy is sobered up,

skulled,

crowned,

and shoved into

the stage center sun.

Move.

He walked out the door

and rode the 355 express

to the Winslow ferry

shape singing psalms of awe

and

greased in the kill.

Right now he rides

back and forth,

sun blown,

wind burned,

and showered

in sprays of

creosote and diesel.

The hole he hides in

is only the pocket

of his pants.

The alibi he will give them

can't feed a goat

raised on broken glass.

The wind on the observation deck

squeezes the tears into

the corners of his eyes

and says,

"you are alone

you are not free."

The kangaroo court

she nominated,

benched,

and stacked

awaits his return

dung beetle determined

to hang every

silver suited stranger

that ever fell

into her arms

from the southern sky.