at my home. Flung out of his rancid
tongue. One by one they stuck together
just like tar to feather. So, I build a wall  
with his pejoratives that grew like

fast-acting viruses. Up to my neck,
he still flung them. Couldn’t let him
deck me. Like a woodpecker pecking me,
till I'm covered in holes. But now

my house is behind a wall of stone,
tall as me. Blocks all out, doesn't let me
see. Is it he still standing
behind the stones? Or at the locker

of Davy Jones? All is quiet now 'cept the hoot
of the old screech owl, the honking overhead
from flying fowl. And the ripple from the lake
is just the swimming of a drake.