He waits for her,
dresses in the
loudest colors

possible, says
things like I was
responsible for

the demise of
WCW. He tells her
he is responsible

for the blood,
responsible for
the loss of jobs,

tells her I have
survivor’s guilt
and her touch

doesn’t make it
go away, but she
makes it okay,

until the end
of the hour
anyway, for him

to feel proud 
when the small
child in the

wrestling arena 
asks for his 

— Poetry

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