death of you

POW! a man

like me but

much younger, out-

gunned, commandeered.

 

I’d cut you

down from the suffering

which humbles the spirit.

 

You never recover.

In London, wait;

take orders, bow & later,

alone with yourself,

feel like a tool, &

struck down at 50.

You gave your wife

 

6 children & 1 more

to your girlfriend: 7 is

my number.

 

It broke you.
http://bit.ly/2u816lO

Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

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