Johnny Auschwitz

Call me what you want, pretending that
cherry rivers and greasy smokestacks
are all mine for which to atone.

It’s true, there are miles of burned skin dangling from
my heels. I’ve dragged that stinking trail behind me for years.

Don’t be so quick to turn from me.
I checked and you’re still at it.

You’re all still sorting — unkempt from neat as a
needle, their dead flags from your live one.
Red over blue, cross over crescent,
dark over light, pyramid over star.

Offer me something
to make me stop laughing at you

and maybe I’ll go away.

A break from the crap I’m doing at the moment.