the letter knife

maybe it was
the gasp
when his chest was wrapped
round that
letter-knife

maybe it was the instant when he knew
his love to be

something evil like hot
red iron,

a cracked gas pipe

big woman and
she killed him,

and killed another one too,
them fellas just did not praise her,

then shuffled into the asylum
aint-that-the-way!

maybe it was too much tobacco,
he done drunk paint to excess.

And all the sinners are
throwing stones

at the homes where the lovers
read stories and

fornicate,

this is America,
home-a-the-free

peace be with you and
also with me, hell,


i work hard.