The poem kept a wary eye on the man
as the woman in bed read aloud.
“This is a good poem,” she said,
looking up at her husband.
“I want no part of it,” the husband declared
walking toward the door.
“Wait,” she called, interrupting
herself and the poem simultaneously.
“No,” he called over his shoulder.
“A poem can’t fight.”
Disrespected,
the pissed poem cursed.
(I won’t repeat what it said
in case children are listening.)
Metaphors became soldiers
volunteering for hazardous duty.
One with clenched fists
leaped from the page Ninja-style and
slipped down the hall after him.
The man, never having fought a poem
mano y mano,
heard the footsteps but was not afraid.
The metaphor grabbed the man’s shoulders,
spun him around face to face,
let go with a jab to the gut,
then an uppercut to the right eye.
This got the husband’s attention.
He swung back,
missing the metaphor by a mile,
then a closer miss,
then closer still but still no cigar.
Exhausted from punches
both given and received,
the husband retreated to the bathroom.
“Are you okay?”
the wife called through the door.
“Do we have any gauze?” he answered.
“Bring ice for my swollen lip.”
2014