III.
Justin
Noon: cellphone rang.
She skipped lunch block,
Sat on toilet, ripped paper
Muffling her mouth.
Saturday was our anniversary.
It’s spring, so I bought a ski mask.
She wanted a picnic; she wanted moonlight;
I buffed my caliber.
What is it about rich
People and videotape?
The store was empty.
I removed my plates.
Redhead in green plaid –
Name tag read: Veronica –
Squatted down, eye level
With the jewelry boxed by glass.
I forgot to put the mask on.
It was in my glove box.
Barrel-crotched,
I left my shirt untucked:
My jacket was being washed.
I ran out with a diamond ring,
And her name tag pierced
To my bottom lip.
Redhead fell to the ground, draining
Blood from the back of her neck.
When some April chick found my pistol
I knew what to do
With the ring.