Ballad For Yesterday's Trash

He stomped the heart she cradles,

the one she freely gave as a friend,

listened to him cry seven nights a week,

supported him through the days.

In the breath a gavel falls on a final decree

he runs swiftly back into the arms

of she whom he accused of evil abuse,

and stomps on the heart of his friend.

Like yesterday's trash, he spits in her face.

Even so, invites her to find a seat

to hear the laughs and witness the poison

close by, at a table in the Theatre of Comedy,

along the earshot to observe the lovebirds,

allow him to viciously plunge the dagger

in her heart, twist it deeper every day.

When the damage is grossly overdone,

he returns and asks to be forgiven,

to forge together a new tomorrow

but the future— a deliberate trample

of yesterday's trash, he wants her as a fool.

She offers her dried blood for his thirsty lips,

a mosquito buzzing in a hurricane—

not worth what it takes to hold a grudge.

The sun rises in the dark of a gimcrack night.