by Cat Jones
Of all things.
Such a boy. Such a lost, and beautiful boy.
All the troubled lines never drawn by time
Sketched instead with a needle in his own hand.
Old wounds and broken bones
Beneath thin clothes
And laughing stories
And talk of better days.
Broken and abandoned.
And learning to juggle anyway
In some makeshift camp in some alley somewhere.
One last dance
Neither of us remembers
In the mosh pit at Satyricon.
One last cigarette I
Plucked from your mouth.
One last goodbye I don’t remember saying.
One less broken boy to juggle in the hall
Or stand next to in flower pots outside Thriftway while others
One less junkie on my doorstep
One less broken heart to mend.
One more bullet meets the bone.
How could it ever have been otherwise?