Wednesday, April 02, 2014

The Inmate!

There isn’t much
left to munch now.
She cleaned up the
last morsels
of his boyhood,
onto a fresh tissue,
laced it with her breath,
sprayed it with gasoline,
and burnt it in hell.

He has a job now,
they call him a man,
he drives a car;
I call him an inmate.

1 comment:

June Sanch said...

Brutal and straight from the heart! Nice poem. ~ Sanchita