I strangled hope.
Smug bastard annoyed me.
I spring eternal; there is always room for me,
he’d say
(or his fanboys would moonily recite).
So I grabbed his throat
and fingers clenched squeezed.
his eyes bulged green
then withered gray.
he lay dishrag limp on my lap.
I hissed a firehose sigh,
a contrail marking passage across some cloudless sky
and felt
don’t laugh
full of…
Persistent bastard.
Kill you again if I have the chance.
Maybe tomorrow.