empty swing tied to a tree
been there since that broken spring
when the papers came through.
a Saturday like all the others
I pet the dog you tried to sue me for
while I eat a lunch
you never would, never did, wouldn't ever try.
small life, smaller than a tick or flea,
I could pick off but I didn't.
I let your death, but not really,
the promise of end of gone of finish
be a riptide pulling me
under and under your thumb again,
another case for your vicegrip.
the news really was "storm's coming
brace yourself, it's coming from inside."
No doubt they call me bitter bitch
and they're not wrong and look down
at me from the ivory hospital tower
but the doctors, like I, know better,
and sometimes it's time to let things die.
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