by Spiel
stark naked
we’re equal in the sauna
until i realize
two buzzed jerks on the tier
behind and above me
are tossing severed iraqi
body parts into their gab
like they are chalking up
empty coors cans
friendly rick the guy who
manages the pontiac lot down on 4th
starts squirming when
the jelly-bodied soldier says:
“if them blue-state fuckers
don’t like ar’ war let them volunteer
their righteous asses over there!”
rick joins in: “it’s not my war”
i feel jelly-body’s knee against
the back of my neck as he jolts to say:
“it’s yer god-dam country we’re savin
aint’ it”
rick says:
“according to your king”
the temperature of the sauna
seems to double as i abruptly
make myself disappear
while i dry off from a cold shower
rick passes me—head down—
a mounting bruise above
his left cheekbone
A Pushcart Prize contender, frequently published online and in independent press journals in the U.S.A., also in Nepal, Wales, Britain, Indonesia, Scotland, Ireland, and in Canada, The Poet Spiel creates diverse works of personal conflict and social consciousness. His newest book is she: insinuations of flesh brooding, published in 2008, by March Street Press. Learn more about his body of short stories, poetry, spoken word and art at Spiel's homepage.
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