I wish I could
fight you. Pull
over the car. Pull off
the road.
Open the windows wide so
that the oldies leap out onto the pavement
like a jerking staccato
And my fists would
sing harmony to your punches.
Afterwards,
when that tooth of yours is gone,
applesauce pit in its place,
And when my brow is
wrinkled silver with a row
of catgut stiches on my scalp,
afterwards,
our voices will be pianissimo
and delicate.
We’ll listen in for the portmanteau
of the train and the traffic, and we’ll
look to the measureof road
up ahead.