splatters
above the baseboards like
spray
from an abstract painter’s gun
“my
blood” she tells me with a touch of airs
paid
for
by
his hauling her
to
the top of the stairs
fetus
tumbling out of her womb
even
animals don’t do that.
Jaws
drop when the cops show up
in
all their subtlety and sophistication
she’s
giving the thing
mouth
to mouth resuscitation
the
law had to
pry
it
out
of her hands
why,
they
didn’t say
viable
fetus is what they said.
She
named it,
provided
a decent
burial
in a proper graveyard
talks
to it moribund around a drunken clock
while
her common law pimp
does
90 days in the workhouse.
“WE’LL PUT A HAMMER IN HIS HAND THAT’LL
SOFTEN HIM UP!”
judge
banged the gavel
without
a
second guessing.
It
falls
upon
a
column
of
script
to
teach
these
wayward
men
their
lesson.
Ya
think?
Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com. All rights reserved.