POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+
After the day's razing,
I go out looking to get laid,
end up at a coffee shop
reading a cheap zine.
When I leave,
my hands are as black as shadows,
and I am fifteen years older.
Soldiers are eating raw pork
in the streets. Mannequins lie in gutters,
profanities scribbled on their breasts.
I am singing happy birthday to myself
when the first bomb falls.
In a second, I will be an old man
peering through a rusty keyhole,
wondering why the room inside is empty.
My children will walk by rubble
as casually as if they were window shopping.
And when night pounds like a court date,
bailiffs with clipped wings will appear,
escort me to a place lined with broken glass,
where my name will be removed as if it were old gauze,
before God arrives like a celebrated surgeon,
puts the mask over my face, and amputates my memory.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09: 105