Word of Mouth

When the larynx shifts (a caviling bone) darts for cover, as if caught in its bell tower with a high-powered rifle. I see his desperate need to talk. those damn people, ingrates, free-loaders, punks. Salty epithets march up and down his throat, as if menacing the very fabric of his Adam's apple. Behind his eyes the damned are piling up. We are out here alone, just him and me, and this anger strangling his windpipe. He once carried a buddy out of a kill zone, but not much of himself, just this bitter slanguage. I want to grab hold of him, hug him close, let him talk it all out, allow his words to spill out of their foxholes. Then break some ciabatta with him, some Ligurian olives and chianti, share a dirty joke between wine sweetened gums.