A Slick Heart In Overdrive

Keep up,
says the mother
as she turns to see an
empty park at night. Her daughter
as an eclipse
rests up and off a ways.
The skin chills a slick heart into
some kind
of overdrive
as the air comes to aid
the villain, the struggle unheard--
just leaves
hissing above
like they'd planned the whole thing.
A year
will come and go,
wordless afternoons wired
by the restless mind filled with hope--
her pulse
brought to silence
as a young cop removes
his cap and sighs a step outside
the rain.

The Names We Forget

The gun's on me, an old .45
like my grandpa carried onto Omaha;
grins like I owe him money,
a nut, or a promise
I'll stop poking his sister,
his mother, his wife.

He may think he knows me,
but his idea of me is flawed--
in a minute now,
he'll be in two piss puddles,
groveling at this end
like he's expected of me.
There will be little hesitation
before I strike him
temple to temple
like an ill-tempered dog--
before I lower him down
along the cold concrete
and take off
for the long L home.

Yeah, he should have
given me his name
as he handed me mine
at two paces and up with the pistol.
Such is the discourse--
even in violence--
to lose courtesy
out of convenience.
Manners, to the curse of pride.

Mr. Huskey writes poetry and fiction. His work has appeared in a few journals, including Keyhole Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, and Zygote In My Coffee. Links to his work can be found at jasonlhuskey.wordpress.com He lives in Virginia.

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