"I'm not angry," barks
the man-child with fingers
clenched into mittens
made of tendons
and brow line hunched
like the backs of cavemen.
The veins
that line his neck
form boiling canals
when he's quicker
to set ablaze
than a paper doll
in a brush fire.
The annals of his ancestry
could fit into a matchbook--
a pocket-size anthology
of swinging *****
and temper tantrums.
The sweat his pores harvest
both quench
and drown him.