Jogging in Central Park

September 13 0 Comments Category: Poems

The blood-eyes blank in the ski-mask slits,

A fistful of hair beneath her.

The knife on top, its tip at her tits,

Stilled even the faintest shudder.


Beyond the hedged-in grassy glade,

The birds oblivious winging,

Still on her ears her iPod played,

Her favorite song kept singing.


His smell osmosed into her soul,

Her silence rent the night!

Her God stayed hidden like a mole,

His God laughed at his might!

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