Looking Behind
16 ½ years
report cards
half ripped rolled
into substandard roaches
weigh down his rucksack.
He skids into carpark
joy-crying mo-ped
down potholes
already knowing where
nowhere leads.
He drops wheelies
wanting to be seen.
Coup
Dog front crawls himself across the battlefield
slobbering toxins,
dragging the sun lassoed to his tail.
Flies swarm behind,
god is dead.
Dog made sure of it.
He makes it to the river.
Lungs like overused train brakes.
He begins drinking from the bed.
Forests into wastelands
fields into carparks
oceans into bunkers.
Dog keeps going.
Slurping up the final swells.