The Flame by Jackson Pollock
Tiny, plastic hands and hooks and tentacles
Extending from wily reds and angry purples,
And billowing blacks,
The primary colors of being the bad guy.
I suppose that is why I came to her,
Flushed and bruised and screaming,
Just in time for lunch on a Wednesday,
In the middle of the story of that week,
And I raised my head right there in the hospital
To see if the world had heroes to pick on.
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