Naught but a token
a passing sun across a palm,
a folded bill between hands shaking,
something sour of mind to sweeten the deal.
Sign on the line
wax and seal,
naught but a pinch a prick a puckered lip
and squint of closed eye,
something extra to win such a prize.
His heart had beat its loud protest
beneath a weakened chest,
his knees tried to buckle
under the wait of it all
and feet so confident
now fearfully refused to carry.
Closed eyes, to light no longer welcome,
he felt the quickening of the day
hurry him to a decision
a derision a fateful incision
and all the world turned in unison to watch,
to stare in horror unable to blink,
at a father so fathered that a son he would kill.

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