Park Bench, a dangerous thing

to lie on [under normal circumstance]

he has shot me in the neck

no movement

but still talks to me

like I'm not written off.

He puts the gun in my 

limp hand, plays with

my skin flap, tells me how he'll

finish [my hope still clinging].

There is a lot of blood.

"Give me the gun." [He can do

anything.] My spine against the wood

stiffens as he steps back, saying,

"This is the third and final time

I told you about."

The scene here, night, an open park with

few trees, but yes a playground. I

lift my shirt-bottom over my eyes

last bit of strength

as he raises the gun, fires

a bullet between them.

I am not dead, but it is easy to pretend.

[I do not know the meaning

of this dream, why the killer retreats

satisfied.] The feeling is diagnostic,

close but still here

[hope is tough].

. . . . . . . .

A group of men take interest, somehow I reach

out, grab a shirt sleeve.

Help.

My third eye, open,

does not like the look in his blond.

Oh no.

The blond wants finds a new toy.

"Wear her out." "Yes."

[Intention is louder than words.]

I can't stop the lifting,

dragging, I am at

their mercy

's end

. . . . . . . .

The park isn't empty' [it feels forced] 

The people can’t associate—integrate

into a night at the park, this figure:

dragged and shot, a bleeding woman

being taken [passive, by whom?] toward

a van where . . .

[I flinch to consider my end.

It is not pretty, and it is inevitable.]

Little black girl playing with your mother

at the booths, the playground where there is 

candy and light, she doesn't want you

to see my eyes pleading.

She moves away, pulling

your hand.

The woman tries

to keep her daughter from looking.

But she does look.