Word of Mouth
When his stiff larynx shifts,
a caviling bone that darts for cover
as if caught in its bell tower
with a high-powered rifle.
I see his desperate need to talk.
"Those dumb forks,
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 a lot of himself,
just this bitter slanguage.
I want to grab hold of him,
hug him,
let him talk it out,
allow his wounded words,
to spill out of their foxholes,
then share a dirty joke or two.
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