SUNDAY AFTER NOON
the pen was out of ink.
it died on its ballpoint etching a revolver
on the splintered face of a baseball bat.
the owner finished it with an old key;
the one which still had car paint under its nails;
the ones who had clawed at the doors, the bodywork,
until it bled scratches like stretch marks.
he loaded the bat with ink and scars so later he could burn it
in a bonfire on the bonnet of her car.
he did this before tea time
and smoked the fumes through a cigarette
he rolled without tobacco.
then he went home
to watch football and masturbate.