Tv On Snipe
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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