I wore your leather jacket,
the one from years ago,
out in the rain today,
but the pain was not good enough
without you around to grimace
as the big raindrops left their
dark splotches
right about where I would place
a bodyshot, if I was not so
enamored of headshots;
and then I ripped a photo of you
into two
or three
million pieces,
sprinkling them on the ground
as the rain beat down,
turning your jacket
into trash;
and I hoped that forever
you moan and thrash,
and know no peace,
and die a slow, painful death,

December 13, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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