Roughshod

Roughshod,
close to the bone,
Raoul Duke,
you son of a bitch,
I miss you.

Rum on ice, the dark kind
that melts into your brain like browned butter straight from a cast iron frypan.

This is what I’ve got.

There were plans for this place.
You can see it in steps that lead nowhere,
busted up skeletons that were once schools,
rusted swing sets,
empty spray paint cans.

Someone lynched a bird in a tree,
a fucking noose and all.
They hanged a fucking bird in a tree.

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Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry

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