Keepsake For The Wicked

Smoke traces the curves of my steering wheel.

I watch her undress through the sheer, curtains flowing.

Engine hushed; Every whisper becomes profound.

Waiting for the cover of darkness, and for her to drift asleep.

Then she sleeps.

Door latch opens, Security breached.

Stairwell.

Hallway.

Bedroom.

I inhale her hair while she dreams, don’t mind me.

The crisp fragrance of a clipped keepsake,

fills my pocket for another day.

Back to business I must go.

A cocktail on a rag leads to a drowsy drag.

Car ride out of town, tied and bound.

A shovel

A pit.

Wiping the sweat as I spit.

I break for a swig, then draw a puff from my cig.

A key turned; my trunk exposed.

Hello Gorgeous—She squirms as she wakes.

She wiggles and shakes; Biting at her tape.

A shoulder ride, then she’s tossed inside.

Dirt piled on, six feet under.

“I lay you to rest my love.”

Minutes of air.

How will she use it,

to breath, to cry, or yell for help?

But they won’t hear her scream.

Not in these woods.

Not as I drive away.

They won’t hear her muffled shrieks.

Maybe now, she’ll remember me.