Old Customer

The blackest veil
could not conceal the joy
his broken body stretched across concrete
delivered me.
Not even hell could parallel
his volcanic temperament
aflame over a missing fry,
a mortal sin.
A lightning chariot
answered our prayers–cast
him to the street, dashed to pieces,
Last Rites denied.
Old Scratch now scraps in the trash.
The worms now feast on bitter rind,
coworkers rejoice on cheese and wine,
deliverance.

Critique

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