I like to imagine no hesitation,
but there is memory of blood,
white epileptic terror, snot and tears, torn fingernails, and dust,
a burning, claustrophobic taste of metal in the air.
I flailed, I screamed, we ran away.
I remember running with the
dirty Jewboy. I
cool ceramic tiles,
a charcoal sketch, a pretty girl
I would never meet.
Copyright John D Porter © 1997
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