We sat at a table
after work,
drinking pitchers of beer,
telling stories,
and venting our disgust
with the *******
in charge of
much of our lives.

He spoke up,
for a change,
a normally quiet,
mild mannered
worker bee of a man,
and said,
“I’ve got a lot of venom
built up in me.”

We stared into
our beer glasses,
no one saying anything,
except two of the women,
who laughed at him,
then continued talking.

I’ll never forget how his face
looked like a mountain *****
stripped after a landslide,
the naked granite beneath
cracked and grey,
standing silent after
the roar of debris,
but still seeming to quiver
as though a second layer
might soon peel
and fall.