Six Months in 1995
It didn’t have the immediacy of the toy poodle
in a microwave. Tufts
of fur crisping brown
eyes exploding raindrops—
nothing so urban
legend.
It was like that
frog you brought
to a slow simmer
one degree at a time
too complacent to hop
away.
It was a horror
movie: slow-motion running
soundtrack in the background, mask appearing
in the mirror, as the blood
drips from the ceiling
fan.
It was a series
of small steps—seemingly unconnected:
pregnant girlfriend,
d********x with a bread knife,
itchy-faced bouncer with teeth
that wouldn’t brush clean,
red dressed addict in frayed
fishnets, covered with drywall
vomit in the walk-in-closet.
Glasses clink, lines crawl
up noses burning
inexorable fuses.
Arms and legs splayed
over rust-covered shag
floating face down in the boil.
Something died here.
Someone died here.
We all should have died
here.
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