The wavy metal sword,
Forged by the neophytic
Of a gap-toothed grease monkey meth-head,
Seems so distant now
Between the unfinished syllabi
And repeated bank statements.
The blundering knife fights,
While the obese mother
Traverses in her green Chevy Neon
On a quest for 40 golden ounces
Of premium malt beverage.
On Sunday the fat bodies whirl
Like angels before God,
Pray through the grinding knees
For two consecutive paychecks.
Now, the cigar smoke haze mal-lingers
Like menthol smoke in a double-wide trailer,
Deeply haled and droll.