six

If I'd had my wits about me
I'd have numbered these poems in French.

Une. Deux. Trois. Et cetera.
It might have seemed clever, in a quiet sort of way.

Of course there are those people these days
who are put off by French things.

I wish all those people would die
in a gigantic flaming auto accident,

the acrid fumes spewing from molten steel,
melting plastic, and burnt bone

causing recess to be cancelled
at a nearby elementary school.

So many sad children.
One happy black metal dude.