the cautionary tale
its victim a caricature
swathed in erotic violence
and fever dreams
falling on a sword
winds up rusting in the rubble
a prototype untrusted
though timeworn.
We'll look at each other
and say with a shrug
"I hope it wasn't heroin."
It's as though
they have less to lose.
It's clear they live not
for God.
We lost a lot of good men
on that beach
pleased at being beaten
at their own revolver game.
