That bombastic buck

That bombastic buck
of a gun came in
cussing a muck
full of sons— with two
officers like bouncers
beside him—
Brought him in ‘cause
he’s drunk and wife
took a bat to bunt
and blast at his car—
A minute just a minute
just a hot minute
at a peep show—
Who doesn’t come home all
stunked, buzzed, and junked?
It's luck to take a swing
at your wife— but she— not
lacking gut and likely as
flushed, unabashedly
swiped a chef’s knife and
before they could mise
gave an incise straight
through the ala— left
nostril almost nada

I then made a
case to fix his face and
with haste I laid the bull dog
down on the table—
Told him to be stable
no fidgets or spites
no nasty dog bites
‘cause it’s three in the night
and I need you polite
to unite your nose
to your face with my sutures—
That drunk breath
would’ve been proud
to see his face as
clean, leveled, closed—
world-class cosmesis
and quality throws
just as the pros
approximately— though
seven stitches through
he was dozed— no
longer a bullish brute
all pummel and chaw—
no bulging jaw—
but soft and exposed
like a big babe asleep in
the warmth of the light

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