“What have I ever done to you?”
Like a muddled, booked faced,
Wormy creature he casts his eyes
Around the room, searching for
A blanket or floral curtain
To wrap around his frail head.
Just something to scream into until the response to
That question ends. He was not
Accustomed to fighting his own battles,
Or any for that matter, so
Now, like a fresh batch of dough
Flattened by a rolling pin, he forfeits to the
Repeated beatings of fate’s hammer
And lays flat in submission.