Hand Grenades and Horseshoes

Lying on the sun-buttered, wind-seared beach, drinking
Absinthe and ice water, he picks at his burning wounds.

This is between him and his conscience:
what he did and what he didn't do.

He sucks on his shame like a peppermint.
Walks it like a dog along the dunes.

He is a solo artist lighting his last cigarette,
shielding the flame against the pantomime wind.

A rapt audience of gulls watch his performance
without applause. He corks another empty bottle.

He knows what governs him: the stern-faced
black-handed clock which dismisses his excuses.

The word 'waste' imposes on his tongue.
Uncomfortable heartbeats rage in his chest.

Some say he is ruled by his head, some his beating heart.
He knows he is ruled by his mistakes.

He wishes he could cover his tracks with sand,
with horseshoe prints, with hand grenade blasts.

But he'd walked that beach mile from town and found her
corpse: like a stolen car abandoned and burnt-out by love.