Saturday, December 3, 2016

On Being Found Not Guilty

He left like shots from a jugular,
stomping away as worn as his reasons
for giving up drink. His shades slid

down his nose like dime-store readers,
so he squinted into the exquisite naiveté
of an ever-yellow belief that all of life

is always fair. Smiling at passersby
while two-finger tipping the hat he wished
he’d worn, shame and shaving and feeling clean

for the first time in months hit him hard as hate –
the kind that sticks and takes root like a graveyard oak.
He fled with his bald head wrapped in spite, his teeth

fully bared, and his eyes drying fast in an isolation
that lands like heat on drought over sourdough dreams.
Through newsprint and hot mirage, he jerks a soda

from a past he never really lived – stolid and beyond
the aging of a reality he used to know, one
as red as rose petals leaping from an ex-wife’s chest.

From my chapbook "The Allness of Everything" (Maverick Duck Press)

(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)

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