Skorn

by Michael Friedman

And his name is scorn with a “k”
for branding. The caraway seed lodged
between incisor and cuspid, squeezed
and ever present
Schizophrenic Redrum twists
around every thought
shouts
bangs
harangues with targeted malice.
Unshakable, relentless throb winks
on and off as it ticks time
a hot engine cooling in summer swelter.

All work in the hand of a beggar
bargains for lost lunch money
from the bully’s breast,
change rattling on the tile
blood drips from buzzing nose
and no play. Every tune rasps
dry and forlorn, he searches for
the family who is not there
to defend and pick up pieces
of eight, the loosening of
reality so real it cuts vision.