Ira
The cheeky CEO — half-drunk, irate,
more sauce denied him — staggered to first class,
slapped down a flight attendant, bared his ass
and defecated on a dinner plate.
And then there was that weird kid down the block
who went to school hell-bent on a vendetta,
packed bitter rage alongside a Beretta,
an HP9 Norinco and a Glock.
Not quite the brutal killer nor the creep,
in quiet desperation, some of us
might temper fury with a finger, cuss
or try tai chi; while others opt to keep —
in case they ever need it, close, discreet —
a baseball bat beneath the driver’s seat.
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