spaced three feet apart
at the rusty
trestle bridging nowhere to never-ending
nowhere, in the small town I grew up in
next to the now abandoned city of my father,
at the site of a childhood
beating by an older boy with a 2 x 4.
Was it by chance that the nails protruding from the wood
were bent? Was it strange how I noticed, while raising
my bloodied hands in defense, how his weapon
matched the setting?
the same splinters
tore through love
and fatherly flesh
via PCP disguised as weed.