I am the reckoner.
Split wood under soft feet.
Serrated chips between gapped teeth.
Fresh paper against finger tips.
I am the reckoner.
I end stories before they begin.
I count to nine and never ten.
Rub fists against brick walls.
And this writing, this abomination, this guilty little ode
will never be finished nor would it ever make sense because that is the moral
of my story.