CAMERON

in loving memory of

a kid with my name barefoot on the highway

locked between the sides of a semi-truck

cigarettes smashed in the asphalt of a cemetery

weapons concealed in the laundry basket

sticking out are red handled kitchen knives to

protect me the way pinecones

cut up the tips of my fingers

or just stab me with a hot needle.

we have that in common, needles and i,

we seethe in this rage

poetry (back)