Regression

Regression
lends itself
to regret, as
the knife
idly
eases
past the crowd that satisfied
his wandering ways for many a days

into your chest cavity,
a souvenir for a time no longer remembered
as the ready-steady
hollow
thump of the heart artificial
thoughtless
thock on the chopping block
careful,
not to harm himself.
“These wedding gifts are not a toy.”

Dicing, cutting a rug
the money dance like stone soup:
mixing, mingling,
stewing in their juices.
The pot is shot.
Calling the kettle
Black.

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