A perfect evening ended as
Its opposite.
Guess it was his fault again,
As it always was, whether
God's honest truth or the
Devil's.

Sometimes it feels like
There's a Satan's Little Helper
Carving my initials
Into every bullet in the world,
He thought, and bowed his head
Unto the sour, sour
Injustice

Of it all. No reason to hold back
The angry tears; he let a few
Hit the kitchen
Sink, so as not to stain
Anything.