Involved

* 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