Mafia
This will be the Dead man soon
turning his Lincoln Navigator
into the empty lot
the pitch back of the car nestled
him in his bucket seats as a nativity
rising slowly from the car he could only think
you played wrong Tommy
we brats in the schoolyard, you didn’t playwright
His walk back to the car only paused
for the bullet to run its course
he finished the walk to the car and rested up against it
Dead for sure.
Kings and Tens gets shot today
after sipping his peach and tangerine daiquiri
the melon-colored cards swatting invisible flies
he will rise, nod to the dealer and know then
the truth of the beaches, taking his march
a proud man in a windswept Hawaiian shirt
grasps it tightly to his Hot-breast
the white-hot sand will surprise his feet
the buildings denizens will ignore all of this
the splatter on white-hot sand
the searing into brown, to him
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