In April, I wrote a cruel poem. 

He picked off the green moss from the wet brick,
Slowly; carefully enjoying the simple texture.
He remembered his yellow home with the
Red bricks and red gate and red flowers.

Les gars vous devez me croire.

Under the underpass lies a femur.
No moss to grip it tightly, like,
Envelop it tightly, like, a quadricep could.
You shake your head, mon complice.
You mark: the peeling skin off your palm,
You wonder at its simple easy texture.
You get a fingernail under a bit of it and
Scratch.

Gently at first, then you dig deeper and you;
Remember your red hat your red scarf your
Green moss outside your red gate. And you;
Wonder whether the sternum handles pressure better.

You chuckle, look away, smirk, and see red,
You descend, you con. You lie down on the
Underpass and welcome: the red truck and the red car and the red moss to crawl over you.
It’s not that hard to hear the hills chuckle.

The smell of burning rubber wakes you.
It reminds you of your lunch, the stew:
Generously garnished with the green
Of the moss, and you remember something:
C’est quelque chose que vous ne pouvez pas placer…

Hypocrite, semblable. It strikes you and you see red.