A Monday Poem

twelve inches and a plate of glass
on one side, me—perplexed
on the other, him—enraged

in the pounding of his fist is pure hatred
in the spittle flying from his lips: wrath
as his voice screams words more profane
than my adrenalin-fixed mind could hold

I think—God,
it is not so much that I do not wish to die,
but that I could, if given the chance,
think of many more desirable ways to go.


~ by jeorgesmith on 10 December 2008.

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