Tracks on the road
Point to the getaway.
My money left me
In a huff,
Sending me into poverty
Out of bitterness.
The killing
Of my bank account
Happened in a flash,
Out of pure
Emotional impulse.
Not premeditated.
Almost a reflex reaction,
When the temptation
Came to fruition.
Clashes cause classes to come to slashes.
Honey turns bitter in the bucket with blood.
Closing time is enemy prime underneath time.
Fellows keep up a fund in hope of reaping
Justice. Children play among the father figures,
unbeknownst to evil in their midst. Then it comes
to tingle their yearning. You can smell the hatred.
You can see the knives in their eyes.
“Let’s go'” the leader, Jack, says, as he gestures
into the bank. It’s the manager they’re after. Jack
“walks up to the first slot and yells,
“Where’s Jake?” Jake comes out trembling.
“You know what we’re here for.” “Let’s have it!”
A swift exchange. One envelope, one knife,
ear to ear. No explanation.
