They said your footprints were stamped in blood all the way to Emergency, the blood flowing down your face and onto your shoes receiving the steady trickle. Did you welch on a bet or take another man's girl? I do know I'm sick about it, you resigned, moaning on a stool in the white, immaculate room, getting your lips and cheeks stitched. Cops standing by get no answer to their questions and would arrest you to compound the folly. Perhaps it would be best to lock you up until you talk. You must be sick yourself inside, your good looks gone, lips scarred and swollen for always, for nothing: money or drink or sex. You've got to wear the wounds and feel hatred for the very things that used to give you pleasure. Say this and the cops will understand. Say nothing and the sickness grows in everyone. Say something, accuse no one. Say what hurts. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL, FR. ROSALIND [ROSALYNDE] by THOMAS LODGE GETTYSBURG [JULY 1-3, 1863] by JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE DAUGHTERS OF WAR by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE REFORMER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 97. AL-WARITH by EDWIN ARNOLD WOONE SMILE MWORE by WILLIAM BARNES FOR NOEL (WHERE A GATE SWINGS EITHER WAY) by BEULAH ALLYNE BELL |