that dead stare.
pure violence.
I respect that.
one punch.
one clean punch.
he brought destruction
with a hunger like the caged dog
he had become or
the song he didn't quite sing
all the way to the end.
he judged life from the cage,
it was all or nothing,
back against the grey stone
walls of allies.
he was the deep, cold frost
that I could never understand.
I looked at his hands
slim
not like the hands
of a 2oo pound plus man
accustomed to settling problems
with them.
I m sitting at the bar. he tells me,
he thinks about calling her.
what do i think.
the air smells like old ashtrays.
the bar thick with smoke.
I nod to the phone on the wall.
I have the coins, he tells me.
his slim fingers cupping the whiskey glass
he is staring into.
what would I say?
it's me, I tell him.
what if there's silence, a long silence?
I don't want to hear that silence,
not tonight.
if there's silence on the line,
it's different.
it's a hole i can't fill.