People are always saying that saying,
but what the hell do they know?
Their money-in-the-pocket
let’s-have-a-good-time lives
never dream of what it is
that awaits them, what you yourself
welcome while walking into the world.
Yeah, you tried to take the man’s woman.
And yeah, he, a stranger, took exception and tried to take
a piece of you. Fools don’t see the set-up,
don’t know who they’re messing with.
He’s all passion and wild-swing. You let him
throw that right-hand closed-fist haymaker
in a too-wide unpracticed arc, slip back before jabbing in
and crushing his pretty-boy nose. The girly-girl
is screaming, the same blonde-and-blue-sequined
tease who accepted a Cosmopolitan from you
moments ago, the same pursed-lip grin-and-wink
who entertained you for the ill-advised minute
her boyfriend conferred with the bathroom or a buddy.
Now she’s sorry for whatever empty-thoughted nothing
she might have planted on your cheek, in your head,
and he’s blowing bright red down the front
of his pink Polo shirt, he’s remembering the little
big-mouth
he popped back in sixth grade, the principal’s bench,
the call home to his momma and the grand
disappointment by everyone involved,
including himself. You can’t relate.
You’re remembering the lessons
this oft-repeated scenario
has taught you: Rule
Number One of fighting
is you don’t want to fight, so you end it
fast. Rule Two
involves breaking the weak cartilage
that leaks and paints his shirt, while Rule Three
connects with his right kneecap. Rule Four
is a temple-pummeling heel-of-the-hand thrust
that prostrates him, even as the circle of foreign bar
bodies
begins its human geometry of wagons forming
a gawk of protection and spectacle for your delivery
of Rule Number Five:
gasps strain through
the expanse of their education
as the first leg hammer
nails Poor-Boy in the scrotum, and though he’s done,
long done, you put the boots to him again
and again and again. He’s down, and you keep him
down.
This is what you do with your spare time,
as you knowingly wait for the man who will
one day step out of that crowd and teach you
an agony that’s more than their soft shocked lives
can ever flinch or know, the badder man
who steel-toes his way toward you
from a peripheral darkness, delivering the imminent
pain you fear and invite with each
violent kiss.
***
Scott T. Hutchinson's work, both poetry and fiction, has appeared in Star*line, Postscripts to Darkness and other journals. Newfound has nominated one of his 2013 stories for the Pushcart Prize. New work is forth coming in Kestrel and Cold Mountain Review.
Scott T. Hutchinson's work, both poetry and fiction, has appeared in Star*line, Postscripts to Darkness and other journals. Newfound has nominated one of his 2013 stories for the Pushcart Prize. New work is forth coming in Kestrel and Cold Mountain Review.
