No one told me to do it, but I was thorough
as a vigilante with the hammer. Blame it
on the hitman’s ghost-written bio, cast aside
after thirty pages of full-on true-crime gore.
Some sliver must have cut me, his flick-knife
needling my brain to this ribbon of dream.
My boy was a looter, blond as a surfie, long-calved,
his stealings in a bin-bag gripped at the neck.