4. (son-of-a-gun)
the phone rings,
and its dull echo
hangs in the air
like a sardonic grin.
a roll of grudging thunder
shoulders through the window.
it's echoed in his head
by a streak of
dangerous thoughts
the gun he knows
he won't use,
smothered under pillows,
whining at him
like a baby from a nursery,
but tinny, & metallic.
the phone, jangling.
quiet, suggestive murmurs
from the room next-door -
he lifts it
from its cradle
& drops it again
as though burned
but without a flick of pain
on his face.
a lick of lightning's hot tongue
across the ashy cheek of the sky.
he stares into a mirror.
pulls at his eyes.
squints.
bares his neck
then his teeth.
his mouth is dry.
fear lies on his teeth
like dust,
but rabid rage squats
in his eyes.
the click of his tongue
against his palate:
hollow,
severe.
No comments:
Post a Comment