splatters above the baseboards like
spray from an abstract painter’s gun
“my blood” she tells me with a touch of airs
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
out of her hands
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
a second guessing.
Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com. All rights reserved.