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WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT BOY
Twelve years old has no friends and no use for his family has a paperback book jammed in his frayed jean back pocket
no it’s a tin of Scripto lighter fluid has a burlap potato bag scavenged from an alleyway between shotgun
flats has a barbed-wire cursive tattoo girding his left bicep and a cut on his lower lip dried to blood
purple he’s wrassled a stray calico by the scruff who claws and yowls as he stuffs her into that cat trap
that he topknots tight then pisses on that writhing gunnysack no he squirts fluid from the tin then thumbs
the striking wheel against the flint of his Zippo do you know what’s on that brand around his upper arm attached
to muscle hewn to bone do you know there is more to this
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Copyright ©2017 Joseph Zaccardi |