'Pressing Down'
Pressing the F on the touch pad, texting 'fuck that cunt',
and driving faster now,
ready to pout about everything gone wrong, like
a gyre pushed closed by a clock spring pushing
rotating the second hand,
rotating pass the sixty second mark,
and the minute hand pointing 4;
on the second hand
my brain hurts and the rain
has been a trickle since lunch and
punching hard,
down on the wood grain making white
knuckles turn red
and those typers, reporters and abusers in the
press in which I press came here searchin'
for a fight better be scared,
terrified and in fear
from all of my own evil terrifying thoughts and
thinking about loss before
even slamming the driver door and before walking
and pushing thru swinging doors of only entry
no exit with hundreds of hurdled beady eyes from behind desks
just staring, my adrenaline soaring
and now shaking taking no answer but your
but you never had left the couch and was pouting
like a grouch
By Brian Turner