Quietly, quickly -
old sneakers run across the midnight dew.
These Vans have holes, so my socks get wet.
You, there, at the end of the pier,
thinking and smoking, on this night;
you don’t hear me, no one hears me,
there is no one here to hear.
Except you, and me, and I don’t even hear me.
I rush up, like the wind,
like a mist of vengeance.
The phone book collides,
with the side of your head, once-
twice, three times, four...forty.
You tip and roll, the blows and their toll,
and the blood and the sweat and the smoke and the wind,
carry you into the black Gulf water.
I toss the phone book in after you,
my phone book of destiny, the phone book - my weapon.
Killing in the name of the phone book, everyone’s name.
I’ve got your number. Everyone’s number.
I dash away.