The silhouette of chairs on the asphalt broke
into a scatter of light. The sound, a lamentation
of shattered glass, wave breaks against
the bayou’s shore. Forgive me when I say
I turned away from him as he wandered
barefoot into the grass among the mosquitoes.
His sweat, a body trampled, an unwashed room.
The black sky ignited. I am ashamed
to admit that I wanted his death to come.
Not because he suffered, because I did.