I've just contracted
                A twenty-thousand-square

                            Footer in B Hills

                So that fat comedian
                Has enough room

                            To screw as many

                Virgins as he wants.
                I'm slugging my gin, neat,

                            From a gold plated flask.

                My Caddy ragtop is down
                And the whores along the strip

                            Want to run their fingers

                Through my hair to turn
                Themselves into stars.

                            My wife thought

                It made her a star.
                Now she hovers

                            Like a marquee, long enough

                For a clean left hook.
                I want her numb, numb

                            As Catalina fog. She stays

                Home that way. When my
                Youngest kid was born

                            My wife hardly had

                A hair in her head.
                I pulled it. I wanted her

                            Bald like an eagle

                So she could dream of flight
                And not get to. The four brats?

                            When I open the front door they

                Come at me blowing snot
                Like pigs. I stand

                            In the living room

                Holding my arms out
                Like wings. I'm strong enough

                            For two to swing

                On each arm. I spin them
                Around, around, around,

                            Then fling them into

                The walls, the furniture.
                They fly like eagles. . .

                

Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2006. All Rights Reserved.