We were just kids.

Give them what they want
They’ll scalp you over
Forty years
Slow steady
Seated at your table
They’ll poke their fingers
In the mash
Pointing to the clock
The door
Your son
The time was never there
Your shoes are polished
What happened to
Barefoot bastards
Pubic haircuts and
Shopfront vomit
She was waving scissors
You called them friends
Street sleeping
Blue moon wails
Forty clean cuts
We were just kids
Faceless crustaceans
Scurrying sands
Snapped up hissing

Not anymore.

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