He would not, could not, did not,
he told himself,
sipping champagne proffered by his dancing sister.
He smiled in thanks,
his mask of beauty slipping just a bit
as he watched party balloons float by.
He thought about the blood,
the blood surrounding his beloved.
It must have been the Spanish,
the greasers thirsting for a drug revenge.
But why?
That, he couldn’t quite figure out.
But it must have been the Spanish,
or some dirty cops.
Or maybe...
an evil passerby
greedy for the white envelope
clutched in that bastard’s hand--
who shouldn’t have been there anyway...
What made the nosy little fuck--
him and his sing-song "Hey, hey, hey..."
think it any of his business?
As if a Nothing such as that
could ever come between
a real man and a woman.
Her fault.
She didn't understand.
He needed her!
Other girls never did mean nothing.
Hadn’t he come back,
time and time again?
Why couldn’t she wait,
trust he’d make it up to her again?
He’d find the killers...
use up all the money made in jail.
And, if absolutely necessary,
he’d even go the distance,
make sacrifices--
He always had.
Ask anyone.
If nothing else,
he’d buy justice for the kids.
They needed it;
he’d get it.
After all,
they were his babies.
And as he drank champagne,
he told himself,
He Could Not, Would Not, DID NOT...
But swirling red inside the glass,
these images reflected wetly:
one eye glazing over,
and blonde strands tumbling softly on his glove.
