THE WAYFARER
TAKES A BEATING
And he got what was coming to
him; ladles of teeth and blood
with no Corn Flakes for the
taking. The simmering cigarette
was left in its tray as they dragged
him outside. Some Irish feud about
their potato famine days, lineages
of the dung-cart, farmers of the
night. Peat bogs, turned over,
and into, concrete lawns.
-
'It wasn't all that bad. I stayed
steady. The first hit to the head,
I admit, was a surprise and really
hurt. But one curls up, fetal,
and rolls, as best one can. I
was hurley-har drunk enough
maybe not to feel. But I should
have seen those two coming.'
-
It was another noisy afternoon,
as I wondered again, where was
that girl who walks around with
the Tastykake tray? I could use
some sweets 'bout now.
some sweets 'bout now.
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