triage brawl.
Man alive! You really walloped that guy.
In dreams, in sequence, in warm blooded camaraderie.
Lucky shot, I guess.
There really is no telling a man when enough is enough.
Like brethren wrestling in September mud until, like mom always said, somebody gets hurt.
It’s not usually me.
Errant fist, twisted knee.
Greased monkey bars, sun blisters.
Accident prone, in full armor.
Sizing up all the ghosts I see at night.
Slicing grey mists and shadow boxing.
I swing, miss, swing, connect, swing, swing, swing
Until there’s nothing left of you to destroy.
Yet you arrive like clock work
Well if it’s pain you want, who am I to deny anyone of anything?
I could dismantle you for hours.
