Scribbles

The gentle pitter-patter of the rain reminds me that no child of mine ill ever face this darkness, for the guns are all locked up in the chest with the broken hinges that I can never quite get open. And my wife can go ahead and run away with the man in the dark suit who comes to the door babbling meaningless things about biology and accounting for the sins he never did understand. But he and I both know no man with a beard can ever be trusted, and the melodious trinket in his pocket should be at the bottom of the river as sure as mine should be in the belly of a fish, all ready to be served at the banquet that is never going to happen.