His beaten fist
was wrapped with gauze,
swaddled like the virgin jesus.
And noticing an unfinished cigar,
he corked his mouth with it
and stood.
The broken light pole out front,
it hadn't worked in six years.
The city kept forgetting to replace the damn bulb.
But every year they'd tangle a
strand of white christmas lights on it,
just for the season.
These lights were the expensive kind.
One can die and the others stay lit.
But with the poor lights,
if one light fades out
while its mouth is gagged
with homemade napalm,
and its chest is being pounded on
with every blunt object in that damn pub,
then the other lights go out too.
Hopefully.
He tossed the cigar
and headed south.
Illuminated in neon,
a fire-breathing dragon
marked the window of a tattoo parlor.
The sight of it made the man smile
as he constructed a joke to tell Harrison.
