to bleed a little
when the night is lonely and
the call of death is all
near…
Dampen the sheets with invalid
dreams, widen the escape
hatches around the closet…
Drip…
Drip…
Drip…
Blood forming around the
toy model of R2D2 that was
glued together in third grade.
You were a virgin
toadstool then.
A face looking to be
punched by anyone in a bad mood on
the playground.
Sure, those memories will lead to
an early grave…
No one wants to be kicked around.
But you are hemorrhaging now…
Mom and dad have been buried a long time.
“Shut up and take it,” You little pussy boy...
“I’m sure they will say nice things at
your funeral.”
About Dan Provost:
Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for many years. He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura--and their Bichon Frisce...Bella.
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