The Poetry of Joseph Zaccardi

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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 its 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 hes 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 whats on that brand around his upper arm attached to muscle hewn to bone do you know there is more to this


from Sonora Review

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