There's blood in the sink, and he's plunging his wrists in. A
hangover halo is washing away. Mechanic-school dropout
stares into the mirror, stands up in his derelict daydreams.
Always too tall, always walked around wearing a smile that
was never quite sure of itself. Planning a future of failures
inflicted in phone calls from strip clubs and bail bonds. Don't
give me that look, I looked harder than most did, let details
like sharp nails punch holes in my shoes. Soft-traced to frown
as I put the receiver down. Where do I go for a pardon?
There's a light left on. There's a pace to our direction. There's
a movie-still of a heart I'd like to mention. We're listing what's
left: a signed Slayer t-shirt, a car up on blocks in his mother's
back yard.