by Noah Friedman

Time stole you from underneath the golden
dock. Writhing there, slick as a flapping tongue;
lips gored, red, whose gaping could embolden
weak hands behind the blazing buck blade,  long

ago pierced in your summer quietus,
beneath the soft shade of a tackle box,
as the motor boat hummed Benedictus
and their grins filet you against the rocks.

Jelly are your eyes, staring at yourself,
ribs tossed aside, flung away with your guts
while Death's booted goons fetch beer from the shelf,
outfitted in their high and tight crew cuts.

When you came ashore you had compassion,
shielding our boys from ‘nother K-ration.