Seeing Red

The first time I knew I could kill
was after school in my
grammar school blazer—
bright blue, red rag
in the rough part of my
rough town where it was a
personal insult to want
to escape.

Each night I was chased by
some gang or another, but
I could outrun them, my heart
keeping time with my legs,
each day distilling that
drip drip of hate
until it was pure
vitriol.

So there’s that day when one boy
outruns his friends but
they’ve given up and
he’s alone and God
he was surprised when I turned and
grabbed his throat, for
I was fit and strong and
he was not.

I raised my fist and watched him cower
all mouth and no trousers suddenly
and my heart was pounding
do it do it do it do it do it
and I wanted to I wanted to so bad
I could taste his pasty blood
bursting from his ratty face on my
metronomic knuckles.

Instead I dropped him, ran for home,
kept running, ran to Championships,
ran beyond the tape, keep running away from
the first time I knew I could kill.