“The Man I Killed”

Click here to listen to David Thorburn read this poem.

was in his early 30s, rosaceous, pocky, the Checker on a Newark pier. He said

I’ll be respected
by Jersey turds
like you reporters

and these Hoboken wankers
still wearing bog shit.
Don’t you get it?

I said No pictures.
Later, off the wharf
the camera guy

used a telephoto lens
as I pointed, for my byline story,
Wildcat Strikers

dead in Bayonne harbor
in a mess of bootleg whiskey
and my story in the paper.