April | 3 | 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.


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.

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