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in the arena of battle,
t.v. on snipe

drawing his long sword from its sheath,
every inch cacophonously sharpened

sinister with geared teeth

nonsense forms from ancient bowels,
utterance of a lion woken from sleep

roaring out profanity and analytical resound,
playback of every word she speaks
to ad nauseum

her smaller sword cuts the air,
pierces like acupuncture,
nonetheless irritates

the tongues of wobbling aluminum 
footwork choreographed 
as they’ve played out this scene many times

she licks her wounds
he rams his fist into the newly painted white wall

she runs to the bathroom, rolling out the entire roll of t.p.

now that he’s alone her words clang like a cymbal
clang clang over and over again

he examines his bloody sword, the bruises on four knuckles
and thinks he’s gone mad. who is this snorting bull?

he hears her tears flowing through the plumbing pipes,
the dirge of their fight. he says to himself “stupid..stupid”

cemented feet won’t move nor the ones that are drowned
in self pity.  the sun dies, the moon howls

morning coffee’s poured with stinging eyes. regrets must
be sugared by teaspoons, forgotten with passing days

until all seems right once more. dark days pass slowly.

5/31/2018

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