Connie Voisine: The Office of the Examiner

The Office of the Examiner

All hail the boy on the bike, the teenager
who ODed against the door, the man in the 
halal slaughterhouse who fell down amongst
the living sheep, and hello to you dear body,
in the derelict row house, your bruised face 
and broken heel, hello dear body too old to do 
more than wait for relief and that neighbor who
has the keys and brings soup, and you, too,
dear human given to bleeding too easily, 
dear body who has too much pressure in her
veins and heart that cannot help enough to stay
well, and well enough that you for now still 
shout on the street corner, thin arms jerk
and flail in intermittent impulse, and hail
your mother who doesn’t know where you are
and even though you used her all up she will
cry when we tell her the news, and you
sipping at the colorful world in the gazebo 
at the park before you pull the trigger on
all that seemed too much, and you who wished
for other things and you who had come in for 
to purchase, hail death so generous, our blasphemer.

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