I like my violence organized
in a clean pattern of trading fists:
roll from left to right—jab twice—
then check the kick.

Three men brawled on my corner
this morning, while I drank my coffee
(2 creams) and stared. “Hell no!” said
a woman, in objection.

There was nothing neat in that violence,
only 2 guys slugging a third
onto the ground, back-down,
so hard his shirt button snapped open.

He did not cover his face
or roll from booted kicks.
I lost sight of him beneath the
flail of untrained limbs.