Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Crocodile Wounds

There is boredom, there is pain,
both slip through me like a paper knife –
then there is the keen foil of love.

The partly serrated edge
of a butter knife is for cutting toast,
yet such an innocuous edge
can slowly saw through blood.

I walk into a Thrift Shop,
see a memory painted over porcelain,
it catches my eye; take it home,
while wiping off the dust,
it slips through my fingers.

Sweeping up the wreckage,
like an old crocodile
I shed a few muddy tears,
now too bored with pain
to write another love poem.

I open a blunt pocketknife
one she gave me, probably knowing
I would need to scratch at my wounds
from time to time.

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