His Type

He’s a  
shitty video,
bad zine,
faded heavy knit,
square bottomed
necktie
of a man. 

He is a 
wrong turn onto 
a short dock and 
an unwillingness to
brake before he goes off
the end into water
too shallow to allow a 
dramatic, tragic
denouement.

He is a
bankroll fat with 
singles and
not even a twenty
on top to 
cover.  

He’s a pool shark
with a warped stick, 
big talk small walk,
too quick to back off
when rocked back by
one well-chalked bank shot —
no game for the long haul,
no words for the laugh
from the watchers lounging
against the far wall —

you know the type
and you know how they all
fall, after a while. Later
we’ll make jokes about him

but while he’s here 
you steam and stew and 
think about how sweet a single 
slap behind his neck
might be, even though you know
that’s not worth all the trouble
likely to come from
all that whining
and tattle tale talk
afterward.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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