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Jonathan Witte
Poems
Sep 2016
Poetic killer
My brother’s in the army;
my sister’s in Detroit.
Momma lost the lottery;
Daddy’s in the joint.
The abattoir is empty;
the kitchen smells like steak.
The cows are off in dreamland,
but the butcher is awake.
The dogs are in the garbage
snapping over bones.
The garden is a sinkhole
choking on its stones.
The furniture’s on fire;
my heart’s a trampoline.
Once a week I wash the floor
with blood and gasoline.
There’s liquor in the freezer
and a hatchet in the shed.
I always clean my fingernails
but forget to make the bed.
Written by
Jonathan Witte
East of Georgia Avenue
(East of Georgia Avenue)
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