Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Sucker Punch

His eyes colour in streams
of borscht blood, the slight
flecks of marshmallow froth
starting to form at the nooks
of his toothy grin.

He doesn't smile for joy;
he smiles at tiny, tiny him -
a small soldier holding arms against
the crawling pace of
armour girt worms inside,
who triumph as his mercury

He's off his meds;
and as Mum tracks the car in
on tacky candy gravel
he throws a spot-on punch
with a white-knuckled fist
into his pale
eight-year-old forehead.

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