I never get angry enough
to fling things or people.
That requires too much energy
for never quite righting wrongs
against me or society.
Tossing sufficient amounts
of life’s gasoline on a fire
for mere flash and boom
yield only sore throats,
scraped knuckles and fuel tanks
depleted of most emotions
I raged today, though,
building from ink and imagination
a geriatric vigilante killer
of nursing home abusers.
It doesn’t provide the same buzz
as a good flip-out.
Done with skill, however,
it still renders
an emotional nut punch —
seconds of hmmph,
followed by minutes of
A 100-word drabble poem based on Day Four of Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-A-Day Challenge prompt for a “Since _____” poem. It’s been a very long time since last I raged. I prefer mixing my bile and testosterone into ink. Like The Hulk, you wouldn’t like me when I really rage.
FLUTTERING HEART. (Photo credit: Neal.)
It hangs behind that space between the breasts
where a woman might place her fingers and inhale,
maybe even close her eyes, when she feels
strong emotion. A touchstone of flesh, perhaps.
I touch that spot from time to time, when I feel
it flutter behind its shield of bone or when
it awakens me to the mortality-reminding sensation.
The medics pulled from their Latinate lists
the term ideopathic chest pain, even if it doesn’t hurt,
just like once they called it ideopathic pericarditis.
A hardening of the heart.
Outside and in.
You laid your hand on me there once, with emotion,
and I felt a different flutter, inside and out.
Now I realize why you might touch yourself that way.
I understand that contact with life while it lasts—
crazy, loving, strange, and yeah ideopathic life—
is mostly worth the pain and even not understanding
its why. This hard heart softened at that touch.