With practiced ease, Bob takes his sharpened blade
and presses it against Jack’s auburn skin.
He says that there’s no need to be afraid
as cut by cut turns to a grisly grin.
Bob thinks he sees some terror in Jack’s eyes
as he continues cutting with his knife;
but wonders briefly if it’s just a guise
to help Jack through his transitory life.
Bob doffs Jack’s hat and sets it to the side,
then strikes a match and revels in the flame.
He smiles and feels a sense of eerie pride
in knowing Jack will never be the same.
Out on the porch, Jack sits in solitude;
alone, alone at last, he’ll sit and brood.
© 2018 Mark Vincent
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