Wisped back from the ocean overlooking
Highway scenery separating bliss from bruises,
The Rock and I headed hillside,
Back to the fold of familiarity and frowning faces.

“When I was your age, we used to shoot pigeons,” he recalled.
“Something for fun – nothing more.”
Foul feelings furrowed far, leapt from the heart into the mind’s field.
I retorted, “Killing for fun? So, you might as well **** men for fun –
They’re as numerous as pigeons!”

Shocked, he shot a searing sideward glance,
Rock to rude boy.
He took hold of his seed with a summoning to silence.

Touring the tides of truth,
I was tossed in the current of straight-talk, pounding against the cliff face.
Fearing not Libra’s blindness in her determination
That the injustice of my tongue has tipped moral scales.