History To The Defeated

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.