So It Goes
Someone told me fear was a sin.
Well, baby, watching you crash
like a telephone pole in a lightning
storm, and wishing in my gut
that instead of splintered wood,
bone crushed on pavement. Asphalt,
mixed with brain matter, my shoes
splattered crimson. Fear,
unless the fear of God or some shit said
in Sunday School, means more
than a piece of stuck gum on the bottom
of new sneakers. The blue ones,
with white stripes on the sides, that you
bought for my birthday that year.
Less than the jumping off buildings,
or the petting of a feral cat in the backyard.
Baby, your fear kisses ass and sits
in the back of my head like calcification.
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