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* CONTENT WARNING: This poem is about physical abuse. *

     ~

eyes, down ...

at my yellow polo,
red spatters
so evenly placed that
they look unnatural -
as if printed,
but unfinished ... incomplete …
yeah ...
blood, but it isn't mine,
it came from HIM -
the guy at my feet,
now on his abusive ass and
weeping like a siren ...
'how's it feel?' I think to myself,
being on the
business end, I mean,
the “cold reality” and all that -
not quite the same
as what you just dished out to
your wife, is it?
the beautiful, petite, cowering woman
with the swollen red cheek
and darkening black eye
standing behind you …
oh, I hear the braying and
whining and swearing
spewing from your lips with unrestrained
self-pity and disbelief,
but I’m blocking out the words -
I really don’t give a good damn what
you think about me,
or the fact that a
complete stranger just knocked you
on your beastly keester,
but I DO have both my feet on the
hem of your jacket,
just for effect -
just so you can’t get up,
so I can glower down for a minute
while you contemplate the full
weight of the situation …
yeah - none of my biz and all that,
I know … but see,
at least half-a-dozen OTHER people
saw what you did,
and have come over to support my actions,
while your vitriol slowly dwindles to
a disgruntled mumbling …
your eyes are no
longer challenging mine,
but staring down at the ground in shame,
(at least I hope it’s shame),
or perhaps you’re just fascinated by
the pattern your blood is
making on the parking lot pavement as
it congeals,
either way, I think the
message was well-received, right?
don’t you?
and I’m hoping,
(both feet still firmly on your jacket hem),
that the NEXT time you
lose control of your over-inflated ego
and under-inflated cojones,
you’ll think of ME
and our little ensanguined convo here,
and maybe, just MAYbe,
you’ll keep those nasty knurled knuckles
uncurled and to your sorry-ass self -
that’s the intent, anyway …
but hey, I’ll tell ya,
despite the intense ugliness here,
(you can take that personally, if you’d like),
the most disturbing part of this
little domestic episode,
isn’t what you did,
or what I did,
or the fact you chose a public place for it,
or the splatters on my clothes,
or my painful hand,
or your busted nose and bridgework,
or the crimson stream of
conscience staining your Brioni shirt,
or even the horrific sight of
how you’ve damaged this lovely
little lady’s countenance,
(the deepest wounds don’t show) -
believe me,
there’s a special place in hell for
cowards like you -
but what’s truly disturbing to ME -
above all else -
(and I say this with torn spirit),
is that your lovely wife,
the tiny, timid, frightened, person behind you,
is FAR more concerned with
my “interference” than she is with the
beating you’ve just given her,
and is now screaming …
at ME …
and you know what??
I don’t blame her at all …
because no matter what happens here,
I get to walk away,
but SHE has to go home with you
and do this all …

AGAIN.






~ I’m not trying to pass judgement here, just presenting a situation for thought … when is it right or wrong to “get involved”, and even when something SEEMS like the proper thing to do, is it beneficial in the long run? (As always, negative/hateful comments will be deleted). ~

Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, December 11, 2022
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