THIS IS THE LAST
POEM I WILL WRITE
FOR YOU, OR ANYONE
WHO FEELS ENTITLED
TO AN APOLOGY FROM
ME FOR GETTING BLOOD
ON THEIR SHOES.

KEEP IN MIND, SELFISH
CHILD, THAT I HAVE WIPED
BLOOD FROM YOUR LIPS WITH
DELICATE HANDKERCHIEFS:
I NEVER BLAMED YOUR SKIN
FOR BEING TOO QUICK TO BREAK.

I AM NOT THE PATRON SAINT
OF PATIENCE. MY FEET ARE
LIGHT WITH LEAVING. I DO
NOT WAIT OUT STORMS,
I OUTRUN THEM.