The Priest

That morning he walked the courtyard, where two boys rolled in fight, and stood there a moment watching rise the mist of scrap and saliva

If not for his garment, he might have allowed the tangle of limbs to scrape raw and open, a familiar pleasure stirring within

The way his father invited stepping, capped by nights, the street his ring, the light overhead catching the sweat of the unquelled

And from his childhood window, always lifting his spirit for the man beyond his own boundary, in secret, in secret

But those days past, that fury long gone, he twisted his hands and blasted those boys for their shameful display

On the Solo and Liking it Fine

Slap thigh and stomp foot, barkeep keeps time with a chorus been sung by men who drink their guts into lyrical rounding

Counter ragging, he leans to the music, words he can’t arrange, still a light slices across lips moving slight as a maybe to join in

But he had his day table-sitting and sinking in a together he itched to break with pound, always winding him pavement and night sky

A fist of stories he could tell the warmed in their corners if they asked but they seem a peaceful bunch not understanding good brawl

So with throw-coin to order up, young brothers shout back at their boys, and barman sets to wave off an invite that never comes