Two Laurel Wreaths

Waging a war on the darkness.

Loaded with bean “juice”,
six cups,
my hands tremble!

by noon,
she’s down for the count,
no blood spilled,
barely a purple hue to my skin.

Then the eve,
she’s coming on strong
as I go weak.

Two beers give her an advantage.
I retreat to my bunker,
she follows unrelenting.

Shows on the TV flicker
from one,
to the next,
to the next.

Two more beers,
two more hours,
another laurel wreath for her head, one more to lie on the ground.


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Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry

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