i chisel out some etchings,
on the front sidewalk.
scrub the graffiti
off the side of the house,
the curb.
i take a look
at the scratch in my car,
keyed again, the inside
rummaged through
in the middle of the night.
there's something written
in red lipstick
on the windshield.
i think it reads,
i hate your guts. loser.
i recognize how the T is crossed.
i see someone in the woods
hiding behind
a tree. there is a high
pitched cackled
as they run off.
breaking up is hard to do.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment