We stand in a narrow, grubby yard, 

circling slowly, facing each other, 

in my raised hand a syringe. 

That’s how it starts. 

I’m little. 

The one opposite is twice 

as tall, and though he’s skinny he’s a man. 

When it seems it’s all up, 

out of an upstairs window, a woman leans, 

she aims, she throws, and the man tips over. 

The syringe sticks out of his neck. 

The woman looks down from the window. 

Her hand is exact, she’s a doctor. 

I remain alone in the house. 

The mess is humongous. 

My uncle is a tattoo artist, 

the black ink gets everywhere, 

and I have to scrape it up. 

I dye my hair black. 

My girlfriend’s a gorgeous, blonde 

sensation, willing to do anything, 

she announces she’s leaving me: 

she’s going to do porn. 

I’m heading down the stairs, the crew’s coming up: 

a team of fifteen. 

They argue in shrill voices and they’re blind. 

I herd them outside. 

I open the door wide, step out into a park, 

Spring has sprung, the sun is bright, 

May Day families on checked rugs, 

a cheery big wheel further off. 

One or two of them remark, the widow’s come out. 

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