The men stand, holding brooms, waiting for the madness

to ring a bell.  No one dares move.  The night has teeth,

teeth like God, a mouthful of God, filled with meat.

 

Who left the door open?  Nothing to be said.  Just this

congregation of testosterone near the refrigerator, tugging

at hips, invisible holsters, souls waiting for sin.  The gator:

 

it’s pancaked to the floor, black eyes that never blink,

the size of baseballs, a look like it will burn us to death.

Our futures—marriage, decubitus ulcers, perhaps Hell.

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