His Type

He’s a  
shitty video,
bad zine,
faded heavy knit,
square bottomed
of a man. 

He is a 
wrong turn onto 
a short dock and 
an unwillingness to
brake before he goes off
the end into water
too shallow to allow a 
dramatic, tragic

He is a
bankroll fat with 
singles and
not even a twenty
on top to 

He’s a pool shark
with a warped stick, 
big talk small walk,
too quick to back off
when rocked back by
one well-chalked bank shot —
no game for the long haul,
no words for the laugh
from the watchers lounging
against the far wall —

you know the type
and you know how they all
fall, after a while. Later
we’ll make jokes about him

but while he’s here 
you steam and stew and 
think about how sweet a single 
slap behind his neck
might be, even though you know
that’s not worth all the trouble
likely to come from
all that whining
and tattle tale talk

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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