By Richard Fein
For David Rubin
Glaring nostrils and gleamy tongue
and sallow buckteeth gripped by
wet burnished gums and brown
hairs fringing fat lips
whinny at me for cursing you,
kicking you, whipping you, wanting
a sword so I could kill you, you
always stopping, turning aside,
refusing to listen to me,
finally collapsing under me,
I squinched on you, my feet pinned
under you, you twisting your neck,
squealing in your appeal,
“Am I in the habit of mocking you?
No!” — my eyes opening
to see an angry blonde angel
with huge flame-pronged wings,
his sword a long needle of light
pointed at me, telling me
where to go, what to say, that
your turning aside saved my life.
Oh, Ass, does this mean
I must always listen to you?
Copyright © 2016 by Richard Fein.