“Getting some air”

An old man’s blood
is not the same as
mine while I write
this. No.
An old man’s blood is old.
Mine is not old yet.
My blood is young
like girls in a choir,
believing the Word
as they let it escape
from their rose red
lips, quivering like
the rope I hung for
the acrobat, before
she fell, spilling her
young blood on the ripe snow.
An old man’s blood
isn’t wept over like
this. No.
But I should tell you
the acrobat wanted to die.
That is why she was
an acrobat and not
an accountant or a
poet.

narrative poem written on 12-26-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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