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.