I found my butcher knife in storage,
wrapped in The Irish Times.
Memories of Sunnyside,
when Snapchat was all the rage.
Now, on my skull, a bare pate
emerges like a tectonic plate.

Some things remain hidden, like souls.
Kids will jump off a bridge
for the likes, and for the lols.
“Never give a inch” read the banner at college.
I was too often in the stacks.
Me, I would just lay on the tracks.