Francis Brown Poet Narrative

Why Beg the Sun For Butter

Scarce the commute of discourse between our towns,
the dialogue of ripened vocabularies; poking, peaking, & miseries
from broken vows. With company, who will break the bones 
of silence so our turnaround can make a cocktail
for me to drink after what we did to our poor selves? 
Say something, so you can punch me hard in the gut. Be one 
with me, sleep inside, warn yourself, not your usual
eight inches apart on a sleigh bed with no bells ringing
in your disregard. Something told me if I pursue, 
you'll be face-first on the floor, then up and gone. 
I believe it is better if they can tell the next guests 
it is whiskey on their bed cloth, but they will know the difference. 
If they are drunks, her blackened eyes can feel 
the hurting in my stomach, his wicked hands are more 
like what I want; the punching, something zealous in my gut.

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